FRONTIER   STORIES 


By  the  Same  Author. 

TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER.     With  Rhymes  of  the 
Rail.    $1.25. 

THE  EXPRESS  MESSENGER,  and  Other  Stones 
of  the  Rail.     #1.25. 

FRONTIER  STORIES.    Si. 2:. 


FRONTIER  STORIES 


BY 
CY   WARMAN 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1898 


Copyright,  1898, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


ilttttetts  Press: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  COLUMBINE  OF  CRIPPLE  CREEK   ....  3 

" INJUN  FIN'  UM  PAPER-TALK." 21 

A  SCALP  FOR  A  SCALP 37 

SLAYING  THE  WILD  BULL 51 

VALLEY  TAN 61 

IN  THE  HOSPITAL 71 

THE  BISHOP  OF  PRICE 81 

A  QUIET  DAY  IN  CREEDE 93 

A  COWBOY'S  FUNERAL 105 

HALF-BREEDS 121 

THE  SEDUCTIVE  SIX-SHOOTER 129 

THE  BRAKEMAN  AND  THE  SQUAW 139 

HOSKANINNI 149 

TlCKABOO l6l 

LITTLE  CAYUSE 171 

THE  WAHSATCH  BAND  OF  BANDITS      ....  197 

WANTA  WANDA 211 

A  COUPLE  o'  CAPTAINS 237 


M105421 


Columbine  of  Cripple  Creek 


Frontier  Stories 
¥ 

THE   COLUMBINE   OF    CRIPPLE 
CREEK 

ONCE  there  was  war  at  Cripple  Creek  — 
red-mouthed  war,  as  they  say  in  battle 
tales.  It  all  began  when  the  miners  of  the 
district  went  on  strike.  First  they  simply  quit 
work,  and  there  was  idleness.  Then  they 
objected  to  anybody  else  working,  and  there 
was  trouble ;  and  finally  they  fortified  Bull 
Hill,  placed  a  small  cannon  at  the  top,  and 
there  was  anarchy. 

Two  railroads  ran  to  Cripple  Creek  from 
Colorado  Springs,  and  they  were  soon  com 
peting  for  the  business  of  carrying  deputy 
sheriffs  to  the  turbulent  camp. 

From  the  "  Heart  of  the  Lion "  district 
in  the  far  northwest  came  trouble-loving 
foreigners  of  almost  every  faith  and  many 


FRONTIER  STORIES 


iongaes.  These  men  built  strong  forts,  into 
which  they  piled  rifles,  revolvers,  salt  meat, 
and  dynamite.  War  correspondents  from 
the  Denver  dailies  wrote  thrilling  stories  of 
battles  in  the  bush,  and  told  wonderful  tales 
of  deadly  dynamite  mines  that  had  been  laid 
in  the  path  of  the  sheriff's  army.  From  the 
larger  cities  of  the  West,  men  who  were  unhap 
pily  married,  who  could  n't  whistle  a  tune,  or 
had  some  other  good  and  valid  reason  for 
courting  death,  came  and  offered  themselves 
either  to  the  county  or  to  the  strikers. 

One  rainy  night  a  train-load  of  deputy 
sheriffs  arrived  at  the  Divide,  where  they  left 
the  train  and  began  to  march  across  the  range 
to  the  riotous  camp.  All  night  they  tramped, 
tramped  the  slippery  trail ;  while  up  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  range  a  locomotive  toiled  over 
a  new  and  uncertain  track,  with  another  train- 
load  of  men  who  were  coming  to  the  rescue  of 
the  State. 

It  was  not  yet  light  when  the  train  came  to 
a  stop  in  sight  of  the  terminal,  and  instantly  a 
dozen  rifles  rattled  in  the  cedars,  and  the  win 
dows  of  the  coaches  were  shattered.  The 


THE   COLUMBINE   OF  CRIPPLE    CREEK         5 

sheriff,  or  deputy  in  command,  was  instantly 
killed,  but  his  successor  ordered  the  men  to 
charge  the  rioters,  and  in  that  charge  another 
life  was  lost.  A  desperado  who  had  joined 
the  strikers  and  who  had  a  natural  hatred  for 
an  officer  of  the  law,  faced  a  single  deputy  in 
a  narrow  trail  and  offered  battle.  The  officer, 
who  happened  to  be  a  quick  shot,  had  the 
good  fortune  to  "  wing  "  his  antagonist  at  the 
first  exchange  of  compliments,  and  the  latter, 
having  lost  the  use  of  his  pistol  arm,  turned 
and  ran.  The  sheriff  gave  chase,  and  in  the 
gray  dawn  saw  the  man  dodge  either  in  or 
around  a  board  house.  As  the  man  disap 
peared  the  sheriff  sent  a  couple  of  bullets  after 
him.  Now  the  door  of  the  house  opened 
quickly;  a  figure  in  a  long  robe  stood  upon 
the  threshold,  and  seeing  the  man  driving 
straight  for  the  house  with  drawn  and  smoking 
pistol,  raised  its  right  arm  and  fired.  The 
sheriff  fell  to  the  ground,  shot  through  the 
right  lung  with  a  forty-four  calibre  cartridge. 
The  figure  upon  the  threshold  waited  a  mo 
ment,  and  when  nobody  came,  advanced 
slowly  to  where  the  wounded  man  lay  and 


FRONTIER  STORIES 


bent  over  him.  The  man  was  already  uncon 
scious,  but  evidently  still  alive,  and  in  that 
condition  was  carried  into  the  house  with 
such  tenderness  as  one  would  not  expect  to 
receive  in  so  rough  a  community  at  such  a 
time. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  the  wounded 
man  opened  his  eyes  and  asked,  with  the  air 
of  a  fainting  actress,  "Where  am  I?" 

"  In  the  house  of  a  friend,"  said  the  other. 

The  sick  man  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment 
to  collect  his  thoughts,  and  as  he  opened  them 
again  he  saw  the  figure  disappearing  behind 
the  chenille  hangings. 

Only  three  or  four  men  sat  down  to  break 
fast  at  Mrs.  Collins's  boarding-house  on  the 
morning  of  the  first  battle.  There  had  been 
fighting;  two  men  had  been  killed,  and  the 
strikers  had  retired  behind  the  breastworks. 

A  local  doctor  had  split  the  skin  below  the 
sheriffs  shoulder-blade,  removed  the  lead, 
sluiced  the  wound,  left  a  man  to  look  after  the 
patient,  and  promised  to  call  again.  He  did 
call  again,  and  again,  until  the  strikers  waited 


THE   COLUMBINE   OF  CRIPPLE   CREEK         7 

upon  him  one  dark  night,  and  informed  him 
that  if  he  continued  to  doctor  the  deputy 
sheriff,  who  had  come  to  the  camp  to  shoot 
innocent  workingmen  for  so  much  a  day,  he 
would  be  made  to  suffer  for  it. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  miners  will 
boycott  me  if  I  save  this  man's  life?"  asked 
the  doctor,  indignantly. 

"Well,  not  exactly,"  the  spokesman  replied. 
"  We  '11  most  like  give  ye  notice,  an'  if  ye  still 
hang  about  —  well,  ye  won't  need  no  patients 
—  see?" 

Although  he  had  prided  himself  on  being 
the  first  doctor  in  the  camp,  and  on  knowing 
every  man  in  the  district  by  sight,  at  least, 
these  faces  were  all  new  to  the  doctor. 

The  business  at  Mrs.  Collins's  boarding- 
house  fell  off  during  the  strike  to  such  an 
extent  that  she  was  obliged  to  discharge  the 
cook,  employ  a  man  to  wait  at  the  table,  and 
go  into  the  kitchen  herself.  The  old  men 
would  not  boycott  her,  but  they  kept  away. 
The  boycotted  doctor,  who  had  heard  of  her 
trouble  and  knew  the  cause  of  it,  came  to 
patronize  the  widow's  boarding-house,  for 


8  FRONTIER   STORIES 


misery   loves    company.      Finally  she    let    the 
waiter  go. 

At  last  June  came  and  put  the  winter  away. 
The  strike  had  been  "  declared  off,"  but  none 
of  the  former  boarders  had  returned  to  the 
table  of  the  widow  Collins.  She  was  harboring 
a  hated  deputy,  the  story  went,  who  had  been 
wounded  at  her  very  door,  —  shot  through  the 
right  lung,  —  and  they  would  not  eat  under  her 
roof  so  long  as  this  man  remained.  The 
doctor's  practice  had  suffered,  but  he  had  a 
bank  account  that  had  grown  up  with  the 
camp,  and  continued  to  pay  his  board  at  the 
widow's,  where  his  best  paying  patient  was 
beginning  to  convalesce. 

Mrs.  Collins  found  plenty  of  time  to  devote 
to  the  wounded  deputy,  now  that  she  had  no 
boarders  (if  we  except  the  doctor),  and  often 
sat  for  hours  together  reading  aloud  to  him. 
Nuns  have  lost  their  hearts  to  handsome  pa 
tients  ;  priests  have  forgotten  their  vows  under 
the  soft  pressure  of  a  woman's  hand,  and  these 
people  were  not  stronger  than  priests  and  nuns. 
The  deputy  soon  began  to  listen  for  the  first 


THE   COLUMBINE   OF  CRIPPLE   CREEK         9 

footsteps  of  his  gentle  hostess,  and  to  mark 
them  as  she  went  to  and  fro  about  her  morn 
ing's  work.  In  time  he  could  tell  by  the  rattle 
of  plates  when  the  last  of  the  breakfast  dishes 
were  being  put  away. 

"You  may  go  out  and  get  the  air  now, 
John,"  he  would  say  to  his  attendant. 

"  Just  bang  on  the  windy,  mum,  if  I  am 
wanted,"  John  would  say,  for  he  knew  a  few 
little  things,  and  Mrs.  Collins  would  nod  her 
head  goodnaturedly  and  reach  for  the  broom 
to  give  the  dining-room  a  brushing  up.  Of 
course  she  prided  herself  on  her  ability  to  keep 
her  little  secret,  and  the  sick  man,  who  had 
given  himself  over  to  single-blessedness  a 
decade  ago,  knew  that  if  he  ever  fell  in  love 
not  a  soul  would  know  of  it. 

And  that 's  the  way  things  went  on  till  the 
end  of  June,  and  the  sick  man  stood  in  the 
middle  of  summer  with  the  wild  grass  about 
his  feet,  wild  birds  above,  his  hands  full  of 
flowers,  and  his  heart  full  of  love. 

One  day  Mrs.  Collins  went  up  the  hill  a 
little  way  with  them  to  show  them  a  pretty 
spring,  with  columbine  all  about  it ;  and  when 


TO  FRONTIER   STORIES 

they  had  found  the  place,  John  (he  was  Irish) 
climbed  away  up  the  mountain  side,  almost 
out  of  sight,  and  the  lovers  were  left  alone. 
The  panorama  that  spread  out  before  them  was 
beyond  description.  The  world  was  especially 
beautiful  to  the  man,  for  he  had  fallen  asleep, 
as  it  were,  when  winter  was  everywhere  in  the 
hills,  and  now  awoke  to  see  the  summer  in  its 
matchless  mantle  of  many-shaded  green.  Away 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  lay  the  little  valley, 
where  in  winter  the  snow,  and  in  summer  the 
grass,  will  touch  your  stirrups  if  you  ride  that 
way.  Across  the  valley  crept  a  narrow  ribbon 
of  water,  and  far  to  the  north  the  new  grade  of 
the  Midland  Railway  tumbled  down  into  the 
dark  canon.  To  the  east  and  a  little  south 
rose  a  mile  of  mountain  —  that  was  Pike's 
Peak,  standing  there  in  the  blaze  of  summer 
like  a  great  queen  in  a  green  gown  and  a  white 
mantle.  A  black  plume  fluttered  from  her 
spotless  crest  and  floated  down  into  the  dark 
shadows  below  her  shoulders  —  that  was  the 
smoke  of  a  locomotive  away  up  there  against 
the  sky. 


THE    COL  UMBINE   OF  CRIPPLE    CREEK      I  I 

One  day  when  they  had  gone  to  the  spring 
and  the  intellectual  Irishman  had  left  them 
alone,  Mrs.  Collins  climbed  up  into  a  little 
side  gulch  where  they  had  seen  some  beautiful 
flowers,  and  when  she  returned  she  had  her 
hands  full  of  rough  native  rock.  Her  face  was 
all  aglow  with  excitement  as  she  assured  her 
companion  that  it  was  pay  dirt.  She  had  been 
all  her  life  in  the  hills.  Her  father  had  been 
an  assayer,  and  Mr.  Collins  superintendent  of 
mines.  The  man,  who  knew  nothing  of  mineral 
rock,  looked  at  her  and  smiled,  glad  to  encour 
age  her,  for  she  became  radiantly  beautiful  to 
him,  away  there  in  the  hills,  as  she  tried  to 
explain  to  him  the  nature  of  the  rock  and  how 
it  came  to  be  there  so  near  the  surface.  It 
was  a  "blow  out,"  a  chimney  of  ore,  she  said, 
and  when  John  came  down  she  made  him  plant 
a  stake,  upon  which  she  wrote  the  sheriff's 
name. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Collins  would  go  up  to 
the  claim  again.  She  was  so  enthusiastic  over 
it  that  her  lodger  began  to  be  sorry  for  her, 
and  when  she  said  she  would  like  to  sink  a 
shaft,  he  set  John  to  digging  a  hole  near  the 


12  FRONTIER   STORIES 

stake.  By  the  time  the  hole  was  ten  feet  deep 
the  sick  man  was  strong  enough  to  draw  the 
bucket  out.  Day  after  day  they  worked  at  the 
claim,  John  at  the  bottom,  the  deputy  at  the 
top,  and  Mrs.  Collins  coming  up  two  or  three 
times  a  day  to  sample  the  ore  and  offer  valuable 
suggestions  as  to  the  proper  timbers  to  be  used. 
The  man  who  was  working  the  windlass  thought 
the  timbering  was  a  waste  of  time.  "  For," 
said  he,  "  when  we  have  grown  tired  of  this 
playing  at  prospecting  we  '11  haul  up  the  rope 
and  let  the  hole  fill  up." 

«  We  '11  all  be  rich,"  said  Mrs.  Collins,  "  be 
fore  this  shaft  fills  up." 

They  had  worked  the  claim  more  than  a 
month,  made  love  and  lost  money,  but  there 
was  no  understanding  between  Mrs.  Collins 
and  her  companion  as  to  the  condition  of  the 
partnership.  His  name  was  on  the  stake; 
they  both  knew  that;  but  the  claim  was  hers 
by  right  of  discovery,  as  was  his  heart  by  the 
same  token.  They  seemed  to  have  reached 
that  happy  state  wherein  it  is  more  glorious  to 
give  than  to  receive,  and  went  on  drilling  and 


THE   COLUMBINE   OF  CRIPPLE   CREEK      13 

trusting  each  other  blindly.  Mrs.  Collins  had 
faith  in  the  future  of  the  "  Columbine,"  as  she 
called  the  claim,  and  he  was  happy,  willing  to 
toil  all  day  to  see  her  smile  at  night.  The 
trusting  pair  were  as  busy  as  they  were  happy, 
while  John  and  Cupid  were  both  working  over 
time.  John's  salary  had  been  doubled  since 
his  duties  had  increased.  Every  Saturday  night 
he  received  eighteen  shining  dollars,  and  every 
Sunday  slipped  in  through  a  side  door  and  left 
them  in  the  vault  of  the  First  National  Bank 
of  Cripple  Creek.  The  smooth-faced,  boyish- 
looking  cashier  (he  was  Irish,  too)  came  in 
time  to  expect  John  of  a  Sunday  morning  as 
a  freighter  expects  a  cocktail. 

It  was  during  John's  absence  one  Sunday 
that  Mrs.  Collins  discovered  in  an  Eastern 
review  an  illustrated  account  of  the  Cripple 
Creek  war.  She  had  begun  to  read  it  aloud, 
when,  suddenly,  upon  turning  a  page,  she  came 
to  a  portrait  which  she  recognized,  —  the  picture 
of  one  of  the  deputy  sheriffs  who  had  been 
killed.  A  dozen  lines  recounted  the  virtues 
of  the  dead  deputy,  of  whose  past  life  up 
to  that  time  she  had  known  very  little,  and 


14  FRONTIER   STORIES 

cared  less.  This  she  had  been  reading  in 
silence,  her  bosom  heaving  with  emotion,  until 
at  its  conclusion  two  tears  stole  through  her 
lashes  and  fell  upon  the  page.  Her  companion 
had  been  watching  her  intently,  and  at  sight 
of  her  tears  crossed  the  small  space  that  was 
between  them  and  took  a  seat  beside  her  on 
the  little  hair-cloth  tete-a-tete.  In  the  open 
book  he  looked  upon  his  own  likeness,  and 
read  the  lines  that  told  at  once  of  his  life  and 
death,  the  reading  of  which  had  so  affected 
her,  and  he  guessed  that  she  must  love  him. 
Many  times  she  had  thrilled  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  and  he  at  the  touch  of  her  garments 
as  she  brushed  past  him,  but  never  had  they 
been  so  near  each  other  as  now.  Those  who 
have  sat  near  the  flame  of  a  divine  passion 
know  what  it  is ;  those  who  have  not  have 
the  best  of  their  lives  to  live.  It  is  something 
to  be  felt  and  not  talked  about,  and  we  shall 
not  attempt  to  describe  this  scene.  We  know 
that  before  John  returned  there  was  a  complete 
understanding  between  the  two  prospectors. 
The  name  upon  the  stake  was  not  to  be 
changed,  and  it  was  to  be  her  name  as  well. 


THE   COLUMBINE   OF  CRIPPLE    CREEK       15 

It  was  here,  also,  at  this  time,  that  the  erstwhile 
deputy  learned  the  name  of  his  long-robed 
assailant ;  for  Mrs.  Collins  would  not  consent 
to  be  his  wife  until  she  had  told  him  it  was 
her  hand  that  had  held  the  pistol  that  had 
almost  taken  his  life ;  but  he  forgave  her. 

The  happy  prospector  began  to  look  at  life 
seriously,  now  that  he  had  elected  to  take  a 
wife,  and  thought  it  time  to  stop  this  playing 
at  mining,  and  devote  his  waking  hours  to 
something  more  profitable. 

He  had  been  sober  and  industrious  all  his 
life,  and  had  saved  some  money.  But  Mrs. 
Collins  had  faith  enough  in  the  claim  for  a 
whole  family,  and  when  her  future  husband 
talked  of  abandoning  the  prospect  she  would 
not  listen  to  the  proposition. 

"  But  let  us  engage  in  some  other  business," 
urged  the  man ;  "  open  a  little  shop,  say,  and 
prospect  on  the  side.  I  have  a  thousand 
dollars  in  the  First  National  Bank  of  Denver 
that  would  start  us  in  business." 

Mrs.  Collins  patted  a  protesting  foot,  looked 
out  at  the  window  and  up  the  gulch  where  her 


1 6  FRONTIER  STORIES 

faith  was.  The  prospector  read  his  answer  in 
her  face. 

"  But  if  you  say  so,"  he  went  on,  "  we  will 
blow  it  all  against  the  prospect  and  start  anew 
—  what  do  you  say?  " 

"  Put  it  all  into  the  l  Columbine/ "  was 
her  reply,  as  she  slipped  her  hand  into  his, 
"  and  if  we  fail,  we  can  work  —  we  are  both 
strong." 

So  the  bank  account  was  transferred  to 
Cripple  Creek,  a  full  force  was  put  to  work, 
and  the  money  began  to  burn.  Mrs.  Collins, 
anxious  to  do  her  part,  insisted  on  boarding 
the  men.  The  man  who  loved  her  objected, 
but  yielded  in  the  end,  as  he  had  done  in  the 
other  matter,  weakened  his  own  hand,  and 
helped  her. 

The  days  and  weeks  went  by  rapidly  enough 
now.  The  summer  had  left  the  hills,  but  it 
stayed  in  the  hearts  of  the  happy  lovers. 
Nature  in  this  wonderland  loses  none  of  her 
beauty  in  changing  from  summer  to  autumn 
dress.  The  white  mantle  was  deepening  upon 
the  shoulders  of  the  queen  of  the  foot  hills; 


THE   COLUMBINE   OF  CRIPPLE    CREEK      17 

winter's  frosty  finger  had  touched  the  quivering 
aspen  and  put  about  her  waist  a  girth  of  gold, 
while  her  trailing  gown  was  flowered  with  oaks 
aflame. 

There  was  gold  in  the  sunset  and  gold  in  the 
hills,  but  not  a  trace  in  the  rock  that  came 
from  the  Columbine.  The  last  dollar  had  been 
drawn  from  the  bank,  and  the  prospector  was 
losing  heart,  but  the  brave  woman  urged  him 
on.  The  men,  being  sure  of  their  board, 
offered  to  work  another  week  and  trust  the 
"  boss  "  for  their  wages,  and  the  proposition 
had  been  accepted.  It  was  not  until  the  after 
noon  of  the  last  day  of  that  last  week's  work 
that  the  character  of  the  ore  changed.  Mrs. 
Collins  had  not  visited  the  mine  that  day. 
Her  heart  had  been  too  heavy  to  carry  up  the 
hill.  When  they  had  finished  supper,  and  the 
men  had  gone,  with  empty  pockets,  to  swell 
the  crowds  in  the  streets  and  saloons,  John 
brought  out  a  piece  of  the  rock  that  had  come 
up  in  the  last  bucket.  He  gave  it  to  the 
woman,  who  looked  at  it,  turned  the  lamp 
higher,  and  looked  again. 

"  It 's  ore  !  it 's  ore  !  "  she  cried,  holding 
2 


1 8  FRONTIER   STORIES 

the  piece  of  rock  close  to  the  light,  as  the  two 
men  drew  near.  She  hugged  it,  kissed  it,  and 
wept  over  it,  until  the  men  were  sorry  for  her. 
One  of  them  put  a  hand  gently  upon  her 
shoulder  to  attract  her  attention. 

"You  don't  believe?"  she  asked,  excitedly; 
"  come  with  me." 

The  help  in  the  kitchen  shrank  from  the 
woman  as  she  entered,  thinking  her  mad.  A 
peculiar  characteristic  of  the  mineral-bearing 
rock  of  this  region  is  that,  when  exposed  to 
intense  heat,  it  will  show  beads  of  pure  gold 
upon  the  surface.  Mrs.  Collins  knew  this,  and 
she  placed  the  rock  on  the  top  of  the  range, 
which,  being  full  of  pitch  knots,  was  red  hot. 
In  a  few  moments  the  rock  began  to  heat. 
The  woman  smiled  triumphantly,  while  the 
rest  stood  about  in  open-mouthed  amazement 
and  watched  the  rock  sweat  gold. 

"  Now  will  you  believe  ?  Now  will  you 
believe?"  cried  Mrs.  Collins,  turning  to  the 
man  who  had  called  it  "  playing  at  prospect 
ing  ;  "  and  to  the  surprise  of  all  she  kissed  him 
and  burst  into  tears  again,  and  he  led  her 
away. 


"3J|nfun 


um 


"INJUN    FIN'    UM    PAPER-TALK." 

AWAY  to  the  west  and  a  little  south,  where 
the  corners  of  Colorado,  Utah,  and 
Nevada  come  close  together,  there  is  a  rough 
and  roadless  country,  filled  with  high  moun 
tains,  dark  canons,  and  deep  and  rapid  rivers. 
Between  the  hills  are  verdant  vales,  notably 
the  valley  of  the  San  Juan,  where  countless 
herds  feed  and  wax  fat.  Here,  for  the  past 
four  or  five  years,  old  Hatch  and  his  band  of 
red  robbers  had  made  life  a  burden  to  stock 
men,  and  the  cattle  business  a  losing  game. 
They  were  mostly  renegade  Utes.  Hatch 
himself  was  a  troublesome  mixture  of  Ute, 
Mexican,  Hot  Tamolla,  and  white  man.  He 
was  short  and  stout,  with  a  thick  neck  and  an 
ugly,  dark,  round  face  that  was  seamed  and 
scarred  like  the  face  of  a  German  student. 


22  FRONTIER   STORIES 

He  was  an  outlaw,  a  desperado  pure  and 
simple ;  a  quick,  impulsive,  but  dead  shot,  and 
he  ruled  his  band,  not  with  an  iron  hand,  but 
with  an  iron  rod  with  a  hole  in  it.  He  was  the 
one  supreme  judge  who  passed  upon  the  acts 
of  his  associates,  and  from  his  decision  there 
was  no  appeal.  Hatch  was  quite  a  drunkard 
in  his  way,  but  he  never  allowed  his  men  to 
drink  while  on  duty.  Once  a  Navajo,  who  had 
joined  the  gang,  grew  groggy  while  on  picket 
duty.  He  slept  the  night  away  and  up  into 
the  morning,  and  when  old  Hatch  found  him 
so  he  had  him  lashed  to  the  cedar  tree  against 
which  he  reposed,  and  then  stole  softly  away, 
leaving  the  luckless  Navajo  to  be  rudely 
awakened  by  a  band  of  gaunt  wolves  that  were 
already  hanging  about  the  camp.  The  heart 
less  leader  laughed  when  he  thought  how  the 
Navajo  would  writhe  and  wriggle  in  a  vain 
effort  to  break  his  bonds.  "  Mebby  so,"  he 
said,  "coyotes  come  and  cut  him  rope,  an' 
mebby  so  cut  him  th'oat."  Just  how  it  all 
ended  I  don't  know,  for  all  we  found  were  the 
white  bones  of  the  drunken  Navajo,  with  a 
rotten  reata  still  about  his  arms,  holding  them 


' '  INJUN  FIN>   UM  PA  PER-  TA  LK  "  23 

hard  to  the  trunk  of  a  tree  that  stood  at  the 
head  of  Epsum  Wash.  Doubtless,  if  you  are 
passing  that  way,  you  may  see  them  there  still. 
The  boy  —  a  mere  youth,  who  had  run  away 
from  home  to  become  a  cowboy  —  who  was 
our  guide  across  this  wild  waste  of  the  world's 
ballast,  who  showed  us  the  bones  and  told 
this  tale,  was  himself  murdered  by  the  "  Red 
Band  "  in  less  than  a  month  from  the  day  we 
left  him. 

The  murder  of  this  boy,  who  was  in  the 
service  of  one  of  the  large  cattle  companies, 
caused  the  stockmen  on  the  San  Juan  to  get 
together  and  resolve  to  put  a  quick  end  to 
the  Red  Band  of  desperadoes  and  outlaws. 
Many  expeditions  had  been  organized  for  the 
purpose  of  capturing  or  killing  off  the  trouble 
some  gang,  but  all  efforts  had  failed.  They 
were  in  Colorado  to-day,  in  New  Mexico 
to-morrow,  and  another  day  might  see  them 
in  Nevada,  or  over  the  border  into  the  territory 
of  Utah.  The  little  army  that  now  went  forth 
to  avenge  the  death  of  the  young  cowboy  was 
led  by  a  reformed  half-breed  who  had  been 
for  a  brief  season  one  of  the  gang.  This  half- 


24  FRONTIER   STORIES 

breed  was  rather  intelligent,  and  had  the  repu 
tation,  among  the  Indians,  of  being  able  to 
decipher  paper-talk,  which  to  them  seemed  a 
marvellous  accomplishment.  About  this  time 
one  of  the  robbers,  who  had  just  had  his  ears 
shot  off  by  old  Hatch  for  having  awkwardly 
stampeded  a  band  of  horses  which  they  were 
preparing  to  steal,  deserted  the  Red  Band  and 
joined  the  cattle  men.  Prompted  by  a  spirit 
of  revenge  this  crop-eared  outlaw  cheerfully 
led  the  stockmen  to  the  camp  of  the  robbers, 
and  the  battle  was  on  in  no  time.  The  de 
serter  was  recognized  at  once  and  promptly 
perforated  by  the  members  of  the  band,  who, 
after  emptying  their  rifles,  galloped  away,  leav 
ing  two  of  their  number  behind.  Instead  of 
being  frightened  by  this  encounter,  the  Red 
Band  became  more  desperate  and  daring  than 
ever.  In  the  meantime  old  Hatch  came  to  be 
hated  as  much  as  he  was  feared  by  the  mem 
bers  of  his  gang.  They  might  have  killed  him 
off,  and  doubtless  would  have  done  so,  only 
Hatch  had  a  son  who  would  naturally  inherit 
the  command,  and  who  would  just  as  naturally 
do  some  killing  himself  on  his  father's  account ; 


"  INJUN  FIN*    UM  PA  PER-  TA  LK"  25 

so     Hatch,     Sr.  —  Hatch-a-Kavv,     as     he     was 
called  —  was  permitted   to  live. 

One  day  the  band  was  surprised  by  a  com 
pany  of  cowboys,  and  a  fierce  and  desperate 
fight  followed.  It  had  been  quietly  arranged 
among  the  members  of  the  Red  Band  that 
their  leader  should  be  removed  during  the 
next  engagement.  A  Navajo,  who  hated  the 
Ute  leader  on  general  principles,  and  particu 
larly  because  of  his  cruelty  to  the  drunken 
man  at  Epsum  Wash,  had  been  selected  to 
kill  old  Hatch.  This  particular  battle  was  so 
fierce  and  fatal  that  it  seemed  for  a  time  that 
old  Hatch,  who  always  fought  at  the  head  of 
his  band,  must  surely  fall ;  but  he  did  not. 
Men  went  down  at  his  very  elbow  and  still  he 
sat  his  horse  as  though  he  were  bullet  proof. 
The  cowboys,  fighting  in  a  little  open  park, 
were  at  a  great  disadvantage,  for  the  robbers 
were  among  the  trees  and  rocks.  Two  of  the 
cowboys  had  their  horses  shot  from  under 
them,  and  now  as  they  leaped  to  places  behind 
two  of  their  companions,  old  Hatch  shouted  to 
his  men,  and  the  Red  Band,  uttering  a  wild 
yell,  dashed  forward  in  pursuit  of  the  cowboys, 


26  FRONTIER  STORIES 

who  were  already  flying  from  the  field.  The 
Navajo,  who  had  been  expecting  old  Hatch  to 
fall  at  every  volley  from  the  cowboys,  was  dis 
appointed.  He  had  allowed  the  golden  oppor 
tunity  to  pa$s,  and  the  thought  of  it  made 
him  desperate.  He  had  caught  quick  side 
glances  from  two  or  three  of  his  companions 
during  the  engagement,  and  now  as  they 
charged  he  saw  them  laughing  at  him.  They 
were  calling  him  a  coward  —  squaw — in  their 
minds  and  the  shame  of  it  all  made  him  mad. 
Young  Hatch  had  caught  the  glances  of  the 
Red  murderers  and  knew  what  it  meant. 

"  Now  !  Now  !  "  said  one  of  the  gang,  riding 
close  by  the  Navajo.  But  the  firing  from  the 
enemy  had  already  ceased,  and  the  Navajo 
knew  that  if  their  leader  were  to  fall  now  the 
circumstance  would  attract  attention,  and  cause 
young  Hatch  to  investigate.  He  did  not  know 
that  the  watchful  heir  apparent  had  an  eye  on 
him,  and  so  when  his  companions  called  him 
"squaw"  to  his  very  face  he  raised  his  rifle 
and  fired.  The  assassin  had  scarcely  taken 
his  eyes  from  his  falling  victim  when  a  bullet 
from  young  Hatch's  rifle  passed  through  his 


"  INJUN  FIN'    UM  PAPER-TALK"  27 

heart.  Hatch  had  been  in  command  less  than 
four  seconds  when  a  third  shot  was  fired  in 
this  mutinous  engagement,  and  that  bullet 
pierced  the  leader's  right  lung.  At  this  point 
the  gang  seemed  to  lose  heart,  and  when 
young  Hatch  wheeled  his  horse  and  faced  them 
not  a  hand  was  raised  against  him.  His  face 
was  hard,  and  his  half-closed  eyes  were  full  of 
hate. 

"  Hatch-a-Kaw  is  dead,"  he  said,  waving 
a  hand  toward  the  fallen  leader,  "  killed  by  one 
of  his  own  people;  he  could  not  have  be'en 
killed  otherwise.  Behold  Hatch-a-Kaw-Kaw, 
the  new  leader,  who  cannot  be  killed  !  "  and 
he  pointed  proudly  to  the  torn  place  in  his 
breast  where  the  bullet  had  passed  out.  The 
gang  were  awed  by  this  indisputable  evidence 
of  a  charmed  life,  and  only  grunted  and 
glanced  suspiciously  at  one  another. 

"  Does  any  man  say,"  young  Hatch  went 
on,  "that  Hatch-a-Kaw-Kaw  shall  not  com 
mand  ?  If  any  man  would  lead  this  band  let 
him  first  be  shot  as  I  have  been,  and  if  he  die 
not,  then  let  him  eat  of  the  lizard,  the  rattle 
snake,  and  the  owl,  and  if  he  still  live  he  shall 
be  chief  of  the  Red  Band." 


28  FRONTIER  STORIES 

This  was  unquestionably  a  fair  proposition, 
but  there  were  no  takers.  Three  or  four  mem 
bers  of  the  gang  reined  their  horses  close 
together  and  discussed  the  matter,  while  young 
Hatch  kept  his  small  eyes  playing  from  one 
to  the  other,  for  he  was  not  quite  sure  about 
the  charmed  life  he  pretended  to  enjoy. 

"  We  are  willing,"  said  one  of  the  robbers, 
speaking  for  the  conference  committee,  "  that 
Hatch-a-Kaw-Kaw  shall  rule,  but  not  as  his 
father  ruled." 

"And  what  fault  can  you  find  in  that  just 
man?"  demanded  the  leader. 

"We  object  to  being  left  lashed  to  a  tree 
to  be  eaten  up  alive,"  said  the  spokesman. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Hatch,  after  a  moment's 
thought.  "  Hereafter  when  a  man  deserves 
chastisement  he  shall  be  shot  as  becomes  a 
warrior ;  "  and  the  gang  grunted  their  assent. 

In  a  shallow  grave  they  cached  old  Hatch, 
and  by  his  side  his  assassin.  The  cowboys  in 
their  retreat  had  seen  the  fight  and  the  fall  of 
the  desperate  leader,  and  now  from  the  cliffs 
above  they  witnessed  the  silent  funeral.  After 
the  obsequies  the  new  leader  put  himself  at  the 


"INJUN  FIN'    UM  PAPER-TALK"  2C) 

head  of  the  gang,  and  they  filed  out  over  the 
foot-hills. 

That  night,  when  they  had  encamped,  the 
peace  pipe  was  brought,  and  when  young 
Hatch  had  eaten  the  heart  of  an  owl,  the  head 
of  a  rattlesnake,  and  swallowed  a  lizard,  they 
all  smoked,  and  Hatch-a-Kaw-Kaw  was  de 
clared  chief  of  the  Red  Band  of  Robbers. 

"  Now,"  said  the  reformed  half-breed  to  his 
cowboy  companions,  "  we  can  frighten  this 
gang  out  of  the  country  in  another  sleep.  Old 
Hatch  has  assured  them  a  thousand  times  that 
if  he  should  ever  be  killed  by  his  band  he 
would  come  back  when  they  slept  and  blind 
them  and  tear  out  their  tongues.  They  believe 
this,"  he  went  on,  "and  if  we  can  cause  old 
Hatch  to  move  about  some,  they  will  know  he  's 
after  them  and  fly  the  country." 

The  gang  would  camp,  the  half-breed  argued, 
near  the  springs, "  Hoss-Shoot-Em  "  springs,  they 
are  called,  because  a  crazy  Indian  camped  there 
for  weeks  and  shot  all  the  horses,  wild  and 
tame,  that  came  there  to  drink.  He  fancied 
that  horses  were  evil  spirits,  and  as  the  Indians 
never  kill  a  person  who  is  malade  de  tete,  Hoss- 


30  FRONTIER  STORIES 

Shoot-Em  was  not  molested  until  the  cowboys 
came  and  killed  him  off;  then  the  springs  took 
his  name. 

As  soon  as  it  was  dark  the  cowboys  uncov 
ered  old  Hatch,  carried  him  away  and  propped 
his  lifeless  body  up  by  the  springs ;  and  when 
the  Red  Band  came  down  to  water  their  horses 
they  found  the  dead  leader  sitting  there  in  the 
moonlight,  with  his  rifle  resting  across  his  lap. 
"  See,"  said  the  young  leader,  "  he  comes  silent 
like  the  lizard,  watches  in  the  night  like  an  owl, 
and  when  the  time  comes  he  will  strike  like  the 
rattlesnake  —  wuh  !  "  And  the  gang  wheeled 
about  and  galloped  back  to  the  hills. 

Superstitious  as  they  were,  all  these  Indians 
were  not  cowards,  and  when  daylight  came  they 
determined  to  revisit  the  springs,  for  they  were 
famished  for  water,  and  so  were  their  horses. 
It  took  them  some  time  to  work  up  nerve 
enough  to  approach  the  springs,  but  the  horses, 
being  almost  crazed  by  thirst,  helped  them, 
and  in  time  the  riders  drank  as  the  other  ani 
mals  had  done.  They  now  concluded,  while 
they  were  there,  that  it  would  be  a  good  scheme 
to  build  a  fire  and  cremate  old  Hatch,  to  stop 
his  travelling  about  by  night. 


"INJUN  FZAT    UM  PAPER-TALK"  31 

Hatch-a-Kaw-Kaw  made  one  objection  to 
this.  They  must  first  cut  off  the  old  man's 
head.  The  rest  they  might  burn,  but  not  the 
head.  And  it  was  so  ordered. 

When  the  body  had  been  burned  and  the 
head  buried  the  band  went  away  and  were 
troubled  no  more  by  the  dead  chief.  It  was 
not  long  before  the  cattle  men  were  made  aware 
that  young  Hatch  was  doing  business  at  the 
old  stand,  and  they  set  about  to  find  out  the  last 
resting-place  of  the  dead  chief.  Upon  visiting 
the  springs  they  found  old  Hatch's  head,  which 
the  coyotes  had  unearthed  and  picked  clean. 

"If  there  is  any  one  thing  tha't  will  scare 
them  to  death,"  said  the  half-breed,  "  it 's  the 
sight  of  paper-talk  from  the  dead."  When  one 
of  the  cowboys  had  dug  up  an  envelope  with 
writing  on  it,  the  half-breed  took  the  head  of 
his  former  chief,  hung  it  upon  a  cedar  snag 
that  stood  close  by  the  trail  along  which  the 
robbers  must  come  to  the  springs,  rolled  the 
envelope  up  and  stuck  it  into  old  Hatch's  eyes. 

That  night  when  the  gang  came  down  the 
trail  they  found  the  grinning  face  of  old  Hatch 
on  the  cedar  snag,  and  stopped.  One  daring 


32  FRONTIER   STORIES 

young  redskin  began  to  ride  in  a  circle  round 
the  cedar,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  at  each 
turn,  but  when  he  saw  the  paper  he  stopped. 
If  it  were  blank  white  paper,  as  it  seemed  to 
be,  there  was  no  harm  in  it ;  so  the  daring  red 
skin  snatched  the  envelope  and  galloped  back 
to  the  gang. 

"  Paper  talk,"  said  the  chief,  as  he  unfolded 
the  envelope  and  hurriedly  handed  it  back  to 
the  Indian  who  had  brought  it. 

"What  him  say?  "  asked  the  chief. 

"  Me  no  sabbe,"  said  the  Ute,  eying  the 
envelope.  "  Ony  Run-a-way  Bill,  him  sabbe 
paper-talk — me  fin'  urn  Bill,"  and  before  an 
objection  could  be  offered  the  young  robber 
drove  his  heel  hard  against  his  pony  and  gal 
loped  away  in  the  direction  of  the  ranch  where 
the  half-breed  was  employed. 

It  was  daylight  when  the  Indian  reached  the 
ranch,  and  when  he  saw  the  half-breed  ride  to 
the  range  he  rode  after  him.  When  they  were 
far  in  the  hills  the  Indian  galloped  up  to  the 
half-breed,  holding  out  the  paper. 

"See,  Bill,  see!"  he  cried,  shaking  the 
envelope ;  "  me  fin  'urn  paper-talk,  old  Hatch's 


"  INJUN  FIN*   UM  PA  PER-  TALK"  33 

eye,  devil,  spider.     Bill,  what  he  say  ?  —  quick, 
what  he  say?  " 

The  half-breed  took  the  paper  and  pretended 
to  read,  then  he  opened  his  mouth  wide  and 
glanced  about  hurriedly. 

"  Quick,  Bill !  quick  !  "  urged  the  Indian, 
grasping  the  arm  of  his  companion.  "  What 
'e  say?" 

"One  more  sleep,"  began  the  cowboy,  look 
ing  at  the  envelope,  "  an'  old  Hatch  come  back 
an'  put  out  your  eyes,  an'  pull  out  —  " 

"  Say,  Bill,  how  many  sleep  he  make  um 
paper-talk?  " 

"  Oh,  me  no  sabbe.  Mebby  so  one  moon, 
mebby  so  half- moon." 

"  Spider  Bill  !  "  cried  the  Ute,  filled  with 
terror,  "  mabby  so  one  sleep  —  uh  !  devil ! 
hell !  "  and  the  Indian  lay  down  close  to  the 
neck  of  his  cayuse  and  dashed  away  for  the 
springs. 

When  he  had  told  the  story  of  the  paper-talk, 
and  what  it  said,  the  gang  put  clubs  to  their 
horses  and  miles  between  them  and  Hoss- 
Shoot-Em,  and  from  that  day  the  band  of  Red 
Robbers  has  kept  clear  of  the  San  Juan. 
3 


A   SCALP    FOR   A   SCALP. 

"  OEE    that   old    cottonwood    back   of    the 

O  roundhouse?"  asked  the  superintend 
ent  as  the  car  crashed  by  a  small  station  far 
out  on  the  plains.  I  saw  the  tree. 

"Keep  that  in  mind,"  said  my  friend,  "and 
I  '11  tell  you  a  story  —  it  ends  at  that  tree." 

The  light  train  was  now  swinging  around  the 
long  curves  by  the  banks  of  a  slowly  running 
river ;  the  official  lighted  a  fresh  cigar,  put  his 
feet  up  in  an  empty  chair,  and  told  the  story : 

"  A  band  of  bad  Indians,  under  the  ferocious 
Bear  Foot,  had  been  threatening  us  for  three 
days.  The  scouts  had  scarcely  slept  for  as 
many  nights,  and  at  dawn  of  the  fourth  morn 
ing  trouble  commenced.  The  Pawnees,  who 
were  on  picket  duty  under  government  pay, 
were  as  wily  as  the  Sioux,  who  were  planning 
the  capture  of  our  little  station.  When  the 
enemy  had  crept  up  almost  into  our  camp, 
keeping  under  the  bank  of  the  river,  they  were 


38  FRONTIER   STORIES 

detected  by  the  trained  ear  of  the  red  scouts. 
The  captain  in  command  of  the  government 
forces  was  slow  to  believe  that  the  river  which 
ran  past  the  roundhouse  was  literally  alive  with 
Sioux,  but  he  knew  the  scout  was  too  sly  to 
advise  an  attack  that  was  unnecessary. 

"  If  the  Sioux  were  actually  creeping  up  in 
the  darkness,  under  the  bank  of  the  stream, 
it  was  easy  to  guess  the  object.  When  they 
were  there  in  sufficient  numbers  they  would 
swarm  out  upon  us  like  red  ants,  before  the 
drowsy  soldiers  could  get  to  their  feet. 

"The  scout  and  the  captain  crept  close  to 
the  river  and  lay  upon  the  ground  listening  for 
any  sound  that  might  be  made  by  the  crawling 
Sioux.  Occasionally  they  could  hear  a  shuf 
fling,  scuffling  sound,  and  now  and  then  a 
low  '  kerplunk '  as  a  pebble  rolled  down  the 
bank  and  fell  into  the  water.  In  a  little  while 
the  captain  had  become  convinced  that  there 
were  Indians  in  the  river.  How  many,  he 
could  not  tell,  but  he  knew  that  Bear  Foot 
would  not  come  alone. 

"The  scouts  were  now  awakened  and  lined 
up  near  the  roundhouse,  between  the  track  and 


A    SCALP  FOR   A    SCALP  39 

the  river.     We  had  fifty  men,  mostly  Pawnees, 
and  they  were  now  placed  ten  feet  apart,  so 
that  we  covered  about  five  hundred  feet  of  the 
river.      The    captain    passed    along    the    line 
and  apprised  the  men  of  the  danger.     At  the 
flash  of  a  bull's-eye  lamp  in  the  roundhouse  the 
men  were  to  fall  down  and  crawl  up  to  within 
ten   yards  of  the    stream  and   lie    quiet  until 
dawn,  unless  the  Sioux  came  out   before  that 
time.     They  had  not  been  waiting  ten  minutes 
when  a  reef  of  feathers  showed  up  along  the 
bank.     Instantly  every  one  of  the  scouts  lev 
elled  his  gun  at  the  Sioux,  who,  unable  to  see 
the  soldiers,  poised  upon  the  edge  of  the  bank 
to  listen.     The  captain  knew  that  his  men  had 
their  fingers   upon  the  triggers,  and  the   first 
warning  the  Sioux  had  was  the  officer's  com 
mand  to  his   men  to  fire.     Before   the    Sioux 
could  gain  their  feet,  or  even  drop  behind  the 
bank,  the   scouts   blazed   away.     A   dozen   or 
more  Indians  rolled  down  into  the  river,  but 
Bear  Foot  knew  that  we  had  but  a  handful  of 
men,  while  he  had  hundreds.     The  sound   of 
our  rifles  was  still  echoing  in  the  grove  down 
the  river  when  the    bank  bristled  again   with 


40  FRONTIER  STORIES 

redskins.  There  was  no  need  for  the  captain 
to  order  his  men  to  fire  now  —  the  Pawnee 
scouts  were  hot  stuff.  They  hated  the  Sioux 
as  bitterly  as  it  is  possible  for  any  human 
being  to  hate  another,  —  presuming,  of  course, 
that  Indians  are  human,  —  and  instantly  they 
let  go  again.  The  line  of  heads  above  the 
bank  seemed  to  waver,  but  a  moment  later 
they  reappeared  ten  times  as  many  as  before. 

"  The  captain  of  the  scouts  saw  at  a  glance 
that  at  the  rate  they  were  now  coming  from  the 
river  the  Sioux  would  soon  outnumber  his  force 
ten  to  one.  The  scouts  at  the  beginning  had 
a  decided  advantage  over  the  attacking  party, 
and  the  officer  determined  to  hold  it. 

"They  did  not  fight  Indians  with  maps  and 
charts,  and  the  officers  commanding  the  scouts 
rarely  had  the  pleasure  of  overlooking  a  battle 
through  a  field-glass  from  the  summit  of  a  far- 
off  hill.  A  man's  head  had  to  work  rapidly, 
and  his  hands  as  well,  and  sometimes  his  feet. 
The  Sioux  fought  close  in,  as  the  Romans 
fought,  and  the  conflict  was  usually  short  and 
decisive. 

"  Seeing  the  Sioux  determined  and  desperate, 


A    SCALP  FOR   A    SCALP  41 

the  captain  ordered  his  men  to  charge,  and, 
leaping  to  their  feet,  the  scouts  advanced  at  a 
run,  firing  as  they  went.  Many  of  the  warriors 
were  swept  back  by  the  charge,  but  others 
came  up  out  of  the  dark  river  to  take  their 
places.  Our  men  rushed  right  upon  the  bank 
of  the  stream,  firing  the  lead  into  the  Sioux  as 
they  came  swarming  up  from  the  river. 

"When  the  scouts  had  emptied  their  rifles 
and  pistols  they  clubbed  their  guns.  Many  of 
the  Sioux  were  now  gaining  the  level  ground 
above  the  bank  where  the  fight  was  raging. 
Only  the  great  advantage  our  men  held  — 
being  able  to  engage  the  Sioux  before  they 
could  get  to  their  feet  or  use  their  guns  —  gave 
us  hope.  But,  as  the  enemy  grew  still  more 
numerous  with  each  passing  moment,  the 
scouts  realized  that  the  struggle  must  be  short 
and  bloody,  and  they  fought  with  the  despera 
tion  of  men  making  a  last  stand  at  the  door 
of  death. 

"Day  was  dawning  rapidly  now,  and  the 
scouts,  observing  that  the  stream  of  Sioux  was 
pouring  into  the  centre  of  our  line,  and  that 
the  extreme  right  and  left  had  little  to  do, 


42  FRONTIER  STORIES 

began  to  close  up.  They  had  been  in  so 
many  close  fights  that  the  men  seemed,  when 
once  set  to  work,  to  know  just  what  to  do, 
and  they  moved  like  dancers  who  go  through 
the  different  figures  of  a  quadrille  without 
prompting. 

"  A  half-circle  thrown  about  one  hundred 
feet  from  the  bank  of  the  stream  would  now 
inclose  the  combatants,  so  close  and  desper 
ate  was  the  fighting.  In  a  little  while  the 
scouts  had  formed  a  solid  line  along  the  bank, 
while  those  not  engaged  there  fought,  and  usu 
ally  finished,  the  Sioux  who  succeeded  in  gain 
ing  the  level  plain.  Some  were  slaughtered 
and  others  were  forced  to  leap  the  bank  and 
rejoin  their  comrades;  seeing  which  the  war 
riors  hurrying  up  the  river  became  discouraged 
and  began  to  retreat.  By  this  time  it  was  so 
light  that  we  could  see  the  desperate  faces 
of  the  savages.  It  was  a  novel  sight  to  me, 
for  I  did  not  belong  at  the  front.  I  had 
arrived  only  the  day  before  with  a  train- 
load  of  material,  and  had  persuaded  the  cap 
tain,  whom  I  knew  very  well,  to  allow  me  to 
remain  near  him  during  the  exercises,  never 


A    SCALP  FOR  A    SCALP  43 

dreaming  that  I  might  be  called  upon  to  fight 
for  my  life.  I  did  not  rush  frantically  into  the 
fiercest  of  the  fight,  nor  did  I  run  away.  I 
had  asked  to  be  allowed  to  take  part,  and  so 
stood  my  ground  and  did  what  I  could.  But 
now,  after  the  chill  of  the  first  fright  had 
passed  away,  I  began  to  study  the  faces  of 
these  desperate  red  men,  who,  having  ceased 
yelling,  were  working  with  wonderful  coolness 
to  wipe  each  other  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Despite  the  fact  that  it  was  awfully  interesting, 
there  was  something  touchingly  sad  in  the 
spectacle  of  these  red  desperadoes,  who  were 
born  brothers,  and  who  ought  to  have  been 
fighting  shoulder  to  shoulder,  if  there  was 
fighting  to  do,  closing  in  upon  one  another 
in  a  desperate  struggle  that  could  end  only 
in  death. 

"  As  I  stood  watching  a  big  Sioux  who  was 
fighting  three  scouts  single-handed,  and  who, 
up  to  this  point,  seemed  not  only  to  hold  his 
own,  but  who  had  killed  one  of  his  assailants,  I 
observed  a  Pawnee  dart  past  me.  Turning  to 
look  where  he  ran,  I  saw  that  he  was  engaging 
a  Sioux  who  must  have  been  stealing  up  t>e- 


44  FRONTIER  STORIES 

hind  me.  As  the  men  came  together  they 
appeared,  by  mutual  agreement,  to  drop  their 
guns  and  pistols  and  agree  upon  knives  as 
the  proper  weapons  with  which  to  settle  their 
differences.  They  came  at  each  other  half 
crouching,  but  when  not  more  than  six  feet 
separated  them  they  paused  and  glared  at 
each  other  like  wild  beasts.  Then  they  flew 
at  each  other,  their  knives  clashed,  and  they 
bounded  back  as  if  they  had  been  rubber 
balls.  Without  taking  time  to  breathe,  they 
were  at  it  again,  and  mixed  up  so  that  I  could 
not  say  which  was  which.  Very  naturally  I 
wanted  to  help  the  Pawnee,  who  by  his  bravery 
had  saved  my  life,  but  I  dared  not  fire,  or 
even  strike  with  my  clubbed  rifle,  for  fear  of 
hitting  the  scout.  Perhaps  the  most  I  had 
ever  done  for  him  was  to  give  him  a  cigar  or 
some  very  bad  tobacco,  but  he  had  heroically 
taken  my  place  in  a  hot  engagement,  in  which 
I  would  not  have  lasted  longer  than  a  snow- 
flake  would  last  in  the  fire-box  of  the  49. 
When  these  savage  souls  had  been  leap 
ing  and  slashing  at  each  other  for  forty  or 
fifty  seconds,  they  were  both  covered  with 


A    SCALP  FOR  -A    SCALP  45 

blood,  but,  so  far  as  fierceness  went,  they 
were  still  undaunted.  The  last  of  the  invad 
ing  army  had  been  driven  back  to  the  river. 
The  scouts  were  running  along  the  bank, 
firing  at  the  dark  forms  of  the  Sioux  who  were 
swimming  down  stream  to  get  out  of  range  of 
the  deadly  rifles  of  the  Pawnees. 

" '  Don't  stand  so  close,'  said  a  voice  from 
behind  me,  and  at  the  same  time  the  captain 
took  hold  of  my  arm  and  pulled  me  back.  A 
half-dozen  scouts  now  joined  us,  but  no  one 
offered  to  help  the  Pawnee,  whose  face  and 
arms  were  reeking  with  blood.  As  they  fought 
the  men  kept  working  away  from  the  river  and 
toward  the  roundhouse.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
the  Sioux  had  the  best  of  the  fight,  and  I  said 
so  to  the  captain,  but  he  refused  to  interfere 
or  to  believe  that  any  living  Indian  could  kill 
this  Pawnee  in  a  single-handed  engagement. 

"  How  men  could  lose  so  much  blood  and 
still  fight  so  fiercely  was  a  mystery  to  me,  for 
they  seemed  to  grow  stronger  rather  than 
weaker  as  the  battle  progressed. 

"  Without  noticing  where  I  went,  I  had  been 
walking  backward  since  the  fight  began,  and  of 


46  FRONTIER  STORIES 

a  sudden,  finding  it  necessary  to  step  quickly  to 
keep  clear  of  the  knives,  my  back  struck  against 
the  cottonvvood  tree.  Before  I  had  time  to 
slip  away,  the  Sioux,  to  escape  the  Pawnee, 
leaped  back  against  me.  The  moment  he  felt 
himself  come  in  contact  with  me  he  dug  back 
with  his  bloody  knife,  which  passed  between 
my  right  arm  and  my  body  and  stuck  fast  in 
the  tree.  The  Pawnee  was  quick  to  take 
advantage  of  the  situation  and  leaped  upon 
his  antagonist,  but  the  wily  Sioux  had  not 
taken  his  eye  from  the  scout,  and  now,  twist 
ing  his  knife  from  the  cottonwood,  he  made  a 
last  desperate  effort  to  slay  him.  For  a  moment 
the  men  were  so  mixed  up  that  it  was  utterly 
impossible  to  tell  one  from  the  other.  They 
were  on  the  ground,  up  again,  now  rolling  over 
each  other  and  then  leaping  high  into  the  air. 
For  a  moment  they  seemed  to  be  kneeling, 
clasped  in  each  other's  arms.  Now  the  left 
hand  of  the  Sioux  went  to  the  Pawnee's  hair 
and  at  the  same  instant  the  scout  reached  for 
the  scalp  of  his  foe.  There  was  a  swift  flash 
of  steel  and  the  two  men  leaped  to  their  feet. 
They  glared  at  each  other ;  each  at  the  bloody 


A    SCALP  FOR  A    SCALP  47 

trophy  the  other  held,  and  a  mighty  change 
came  over  the  hideous  features  of  the  panting 
savages. 

"The  look  of  ferocious  hatred  disappeared 
at  once,  and  in  its  place  there  came  an  expres 
sion  of  utter  hopelessness  and  indescribable 
despair. 

"  Of  course  they  could  fight  no  more,  for 
each  now  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  dead ; 
for,  in  the  eyes  of  these  Indians,  to  lose  one's 
scalp  was  to  lose  one's  life.  As  if  moved  by 
a  single  impulse  they  dropped  each  his  scalp 
and  weapons,  put  their  heads  down,  and  started 
for  the  river.  Each  seemed  bent  upon  reach 
ing  the  bank  before  his  dreadful  companion 
could  throw  his  hideous  form  into  the  stream, 
but  they  were  not  less  equally  matched  in 
death  than  they  had  been  in  life,  and  so  it 
came  out,  at  the  end  of  it  all,  that  they  leaped 
from  the  high  bank  together  and  went  down 
into  the  dark  water." 


t\)t  OTiltJ  Bull 


SLAYING  THE   WILD    BULL. 

"  T  WAS  on  the  plains  in  the  sixties,"  said  the 
A  short  man,  draining  his  glass  of  ordinary. 
He  did  not  look  over  thirty,  but  he  must  have 
been  more  than  forty,  for  the  tales  he  told 
carried  so  much  of  the  color  of  the  country  that 
one  found  it  difficult  to  disbelieve  them.  The 
Spanish  gentleman  had  just  finished  an  interest 
ing  account  of  a  bull-fight  which  had  taken 
place  at  Barcelona,  in  which,  by  some  accident, 
the  bull  had  had  the  best  of  it. 

"  I  saw  a  bull-fight  on  the  plains  once,"  said 
the  short  man,  laying  his  tools  down,  "right 
out  in  the  open,  with  nothing  to  hide  behind, 
'  nowhere  to  stand  but  on,  and  nowhere  to  fall 
but  off,'  as  the  deceased  bard  of  St.  Joe  would 
say. 

"  It  was  while  we  were  locating  the  line  of 
the  Union  Pacific  —  simply  driving  across 
the  country  and  making  observations.  A 


52  FRONTIER  STORIES 

couple  of  Sioux  fell  in  with  our  party  and  were 
riding  along  looking  for  a  chance  to  steal  some 
thing,  when  we  came  suddenly  upon  a  small 
herd  of  buffalo.  The  rear  guard,  a  sturdy  old 
bull,  was  feeding  along  in  a  sag  between  the 
sand-hills,  and  the  wind,  blowing  from  him  to 
us,  prevented  him  from  scenting  our  party  until 
the  two  Indians  dashed  by,  cutting  him  off 
from  the  main  herd.  Lowering  his  head  the 
great  brute  bounded  away  up  the  little  hill,  at 
the  top  of  which  the  two  Sioux  sat  waiting  to 
receive  him.  Each  of  the  Indians  carried  a 
rifle,  but  to  our  surprise  they  were  left  hanging 
at  the  saddles.  The  bull  made  straight  for  one 
of  the  horses,  but  just  as  he  seemed  about  to 
collide  the  broncho  sprang  to  one  side  and  an 
arrow  from  the  Indian's  bow  was  driven  deep 
into  the  back  of  the  bull.  We  expected  the 
animal  to  bolt  now,  but  he  was  enraged  and 
scorned  to  escape.  Turning,  he  came  straight 
for  the  other  Sioux,  only  to  plough  the  air  close 
—  alarmingly  close  —  to  the  agile  horse,  which 
carried  his  rider  safely  to  the  rear.  The  first 
Indian  had  by  this  time  fixed  another  arrow, 
and  when  the  charge  was  made  planted  it  deep 


SLAYING   THE    WILD  BULL  53 

behind  the  bull's  left  shoulder.  The  fight  had 
by  this  time  become  so  exciting  that  our  driver, 
forgetting  the  danger,  had  driven  up  to  within 
a  hundred  yards  of  the  scene  of  the  battle. 
Having  bounded  by  one  of  the  Indians,  carry 
ing  another  arrow  away  with  him,  the  infuriated 
animal  caught  sight  of  our  wagon  and  drove 
straight  for  us.  It  was  like  standing  on  the 
track  in  front  of  a  locomotive,  and  every  man 
of  us,  realizing  the  great  danger,  was  seized  with 
fear  that  almost  froze  his  blood.  The  driver 
was  so  filled  with  terror  that  he  made  no 
attempt  to  avoid  the  collision,  which,  from  the 
moment  the  bull  passed  the  Indian,  seemed 
inevitable.  On  he  came,  snorting  like  a  snow- 
plough  and  looking  as  formidable,  and  not  one 
of  us  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  reach  for 
a  rifle;  we  were  too  badly  scared  to  move. 
But  not  so  with  the  Sioux ;  seeing  our  danger 
the  brave  fellows  turned  their  horses  and  came 
galloping  past  the  bull,  one  on  either  side,  and 
as  they  passed  him  each  drove  an  arrow  into 
the  mad  brute.  These  new  wounds  seemed 
only  to  increase  his  rage,  and  on  he  came, 
tearing  toward  us ;  but  before  they  reached  our 


54  FRONTIER   STORIES 

wagon  the  Indians  whirled  their  horses,  and 
with  arrows  drawn  stood  between  us  and  the 
approaching  buffalo.  The  horses  had  barely 
time  to  turn  before  the  bull  was  upon  them. 
One  of  the  bronchos  sprang  away,  his  rider 
emitting  a  wild  yell  as  he  sent  another  arrow 
into  the  bleeding  buffalo.  The  other  Indian 
was  not  so  fortunate.  His  horse  failed  to  clear, 
and  one  of  the  bull's  horns  caught  in  its  side 
just  behind  the  girth  and  ploughed  a  great 
furrow  back  to  the  flank. 

"  The  buffalo  appeared  to  appreciate  the 
advantage  of  this  thrust,  and  at  once  turned 
and  charged  the  unhorsed  Sioux.  The  Indian 
might  have  ended  the  fight  by  taking  up  his 
rifle,  but  he  did  not.  Standing  erect  at  the  side 
of  his  dead  horse  he  faced  the  rapidly  advanc 
ing  foe,  and  sent  an  arrow  deep  under  the 
shoulder-blade.  As  the  arrow  left  the  string 
the  Indian  dropped  beside  the  body  of  his 
horse,  and  the  buffalo  passed  over  him  without 
doing  any  damage.  Now  the  mounted  Sioux 
claimed  the  attention  of  the  wounded  bull,  and 
again  the  Sioux  on  foot.  By  this  time  the 
buffalo  fairly  bristled  with  arrows  and  resembled 


SLAYING    THE    WILD   BULL  55 

a  huge  porcupine.  We  could  see  that  the  ani 
mal  was  getting  groggy,  as  they  say  of  prize 
fighters,  but  his  sand  seemed  never  to  leave 
him.  With  a  roar  that  would  send  a  chill  down 
your  spine,  with  blood  spurting  from  his  nostrils, 
he  would  drive  like  a  hurricane  at  his  tormen 
tors,  who,  with  the  exception  noted,  seemed  to 
avoid  him  by  about  the  breadth  of  two  hairs. 
When  they  had  fought  five  minutes  the  earth 
for  the  space  of  fifty  feet  about  resembled  a 
ploughed  field.  The  one  living  horse  was 
flecked  with  the  froth  of  battle,  and,  like  the 
buffalo,  showed  unmistakable  signs  of  exhaus 
tion.  As  the  action  of  the  bull  grew  slower,  the 
horseless  Sioux  fought  further  from  cover.  At 
times  he  would  stand  forth  in  the  very  face  of 
his  furious  adversary,  and  after  discharging  his 
arrow  leap  to  one  side  while  the  monster 
brushed  by. 

"We  were  surprised  at  the  beginning  of 
the  fight  to  see  the  Indians  using  their  bows, 
allowing  their  rifles  to  remain  at  the  saddle,  but 
our  surprise  was  still  greater  now,  when  the 
mounted  Sioux  turned  his  horse  about  and  left 
the  field,  leaving  his  companion  to  fight  it  out 


56  FRONTIER   STORIES 

single-handed.  The  bull  seemed  to  take  new 
courage,  finding  but  one  of  his  assailants,  and 
for  a  time  fought  desperately.  Of  a  sudden  he 
stopped,  facing  the  Indian.  With  his  front  feet 
far  apart  he  appeared  to  rest,  perhaps  to  collect 
his  fast  failing  strength.  He  was  an  object  now 
to  excite  one's  pity,  and,  although  it  may  seem 
unchristian,  I  almost  wished  he  could  win,  for 
in  those  days  there  were  nearly  as  many  Indians 
as  buffaloes,  and  they  were  infinitely  more 
dangerous. 

"  An  arrow  had  destroyed  one  of  the  bull's 
eyes,  blood  was  rushing  from  his  mouth  and 
nostrils  and  trickling  from  a  score  of  wounds 
along  his  spine.  His  life  blood  was  ebbing 
away,  and  now,  seeing  his  tormentor  standing 
before  him,  he  made  a  last  desperate  effort  to 
reach  him.  With  a  mighty  roar  the  bleeding 
brute  bounded  forward,  and  it  seemed  to  us 
that  he  had  regained  all  his  lost  strength,  for  he 
went  with  the  speed  and  force  of  an  express 
train.  The  daring  Sioux  drew  another  arrow 
and  let  it  drive  into  the  buffalo,  made  a  feint  of 
dodging  to  the  right,  and  then,  leaping  far  to 
the  left,  let  fly  another  arrow  as  the  bafBed  bull 
went  by. 


SLAYING    THE    WILD  BULL  57 

"  The  buffalo  was  by  this  time  acquainted 
with  the  Sioux's  tricks,  and  the  moment  he 
passed  the  Indian,  whirled  and  came  back  at 
his  adversary  with  renewed  vigor.  The  Sioux, 
surprised  perhaps  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
charge,  leaned  back,  stumbled,  and  nearly  fell 
backward  over  the  body  of  his  dead  horse. 
Before  he  could  regain  his  feet  the  animal  was 
upon  him.  It  seemed  that  in  another  moment 
the  Indian  would  be  tossed  high  in  the  air,  but 
the  new  lease  of  life  the  bull  had  was  out,  and 
in  that  moment  in  which  we  had  looked  to  see 
him  triumph,  the  great  beast  stumbled  and  fell 
in  a  heap  at  the  Sioux's  feet." 


£an 


VALLEY  TAN. 

HIGH  up  in  the  Henry  Mountains  the 
Mormons  make  what  the  cowboys  call 
"  valley  tan,"  which  is  only  a  poetic  name  for 
very  bad  liquor.  In  these  high  lands  of  Utah 
live  Utes,  Piutes,  coyotes,  and  cowboys,  and 
here  and  there  in  a  narrow  vale,  you  see  the 
squat  cabin  of  a  settler.  Occasionally  a  wan 
dering  trapper  may  be  seen  walking  the  river 
(the  Lord  knows  what  he  traps),  stopping  at 
night  with  the  placer  miners  who  are  washing 
flour-gold  from  the  sands  of  the  Colorado. 
Sometimes  in  the  narrow  canons  you  meet 
strange  bands  of  men  who  only  nod  in  silence, 
glance  at  your  mount  and  trappings,  and  pass 
peacefully  on  down  the  winding  trail.  Among 
these  bands  of  homeless  men  you  nearly  always 
see  men  with  dark  faces,  Mexicans  and  Indians, 
with  enough  "  white  blood "  to  make  them 


62  FRONTIER   STORIES 


ambitious,  and  enough  red  to  make  them  kill 
a  man  for  a  new  saddle. 

Five  hundred  miles  of  wilderness  and  desert 
lay  between  these  hills  and  the  railway  station 
on  the  Green  River,  and  its  good  hiding  for 
desperadoes  and  outcasts,  who  have  burned  all 
the  bridges  between  them  and  civilization.  Ten 
years  ago  you  would  not  meet  a  man  in  a  day's 
travel  who  had  less  than  two  six-shooters  hang 
ing  to  him,  and  often  a  rifle  resting  lightly 
across  his  saddle.  It  was  a  long  and  tiresome 
journey  across  the  desert  to  court,  and  so  the 
men  who  lived  down  there  in  the  wilds  had 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  settling  any  little  differ 
ences  that  might  arise  with  a  pair  of  six- 
shooters.  Fortunately,  there  being  no  politics, 
very  little  religion,  and  no  women,  there  was 
not  much  to  quarrel  over;  so  the  disputes 
were  few  and  far  between.  It  was  so  at  least 
until  the  Mormons  began  brewing  "valley  tan," 
and  then  there  came  a  change.  Wherever  red 
liquor  runs,  blood  will  run.  A  small  moonlight 
distillery  can  create  more  crime  and  general 
disturbance  than  all  the  politicians  and  women 
in  a  whole  State.  These  little  liquor  mills  were 


VALLEY  TAN  63 


especially  demoralizing  among  Indians,  who 
are  always  looking  for  something  that  will 
"  make  drunk  quick." 

A  couple  of  half-breeds,  who  had,  with  the 
help  of  a  rawhide  rope  and  a  branding  iron, 
accumulated  a  bunch  of  cattle  on  the  San  Juan, 
traded  the  herd  for  a  small  gin-mill  at  the  head 
of  Windy  Gulch,  near  Tickabo  canon.  They 
made  whiskey,  under  the  guidance  of  a  Mexican 
expert,  regardless  of  the  laws  enacted  by  Con 
gress  for  the  regulation  of  the  liquor  business. 
Also  they  made  money  and  many  drunkards. 
By  and  by  the  revenue  department  got  wind, 
for  the  thing  had  begun  to  smell  to  Washington. 
A  couple  of  moonshine  detectives  went  after 
the  illicits,  and  in  the  course  of  a  fortnight 
found  themselves  in  the  wilds  of  the  Henry 
Mountains.  They  reached  Windy  Gulch  late 
in  the  afternoon  of  a  day  upon  which  both  the 
proprietors,  with  a  number  of  friends,  of  various 
shades  of  character  and  complexion,  had  im-* 
bibed  freely  of  the  raw  new  run.  One  of  the 
proprietors,  a  half-Ute,  and  one  of  the  guests, 
a  Piute,  had  quarrelled  and  emptied  their  re 
volvers  without  settling  the  difficulty.  When 


64  FRONTIER   STORIES 

the  Piute  had  run  out  of  ammunition  he  hit 
the  still-man  with  a  stone,  climbed  his  cayuse, 
and  galloped  away. 

Now  it  was  all  right  for  the  proprietor  of  a 
distillery  to  be  shot  at,  or  even  shot,  but  the 
slugging  of  a  man  with  a  rock  was  a  thing  an 
Indian  might  not  do  with  impunity.  The  still- 
man  was  desperate  and  all  his  companions 
were  indignant.  After  reloading  his  firearms 
the  still-man  mounted  a  cayuse  and  started 
after  the  insolent  Indian. 

A  little  way  down  the  gulch  the  fleeing  Piute 
met  a  cowboy,  who  supplied  him  with  car 
tridges  ;  and,  having  refilled  his  guns,  he  rode 
on  swiftly  down  the  trail. 

The  two  detectives,  riding  slowly  up  the 
canon,  heard  the  clatter  of  a  pony's  feet  upon 
the  stony  trail,  and  reining  their  horses  into  a 
side  canon  waited  the  coming  of  the  stranger. 
A  moment  later  they  saw  the  Indian  sailing 
past,  his  knees  cocked  high,  as  an  Arabian 
rides,  but  with  his  heels  digging  vigorously  into 
the  flanks  of  his  thin  cayuse.  At  every  other 
jump  of  his  broncho  he  glanced  over  his 
shoulder  with  a  quick,  nervous  glance,  and 


VALLEY  TAN  65 


wriggled  his  quirt  constantly  above  the  curved 
back  of  his  half-wild  horse.  The  two  officers 
let  him  pass,  and  as  they  turned  to  ride  back 
to  the  trail  the  scar- faced  half-breed  came 
down  the  canon,  riding  like  the  wind,  but 
looking  straight  ahead.  Like  the  Piute  he  was 
wriggling  his  quirt  above  the  back  of  his  horse, 
but  he  was  making  good  time.  The  other 
Indian's  horse  was  thin  and  spent,  and  in  a 
little  while  the  still-man  would  overtake  the 
runaway  Indian  and  then  there  would  be 
trouble. 

The  detectives  saw  that  it  would  be  impos 
sible  for  them  to  get  under  cover,  and  so  waited 
beside  the  trail  until  the  red  man  came  to  a 
sudden  stop. 

"You  see  um  Pilute?"  demanded  the  half- 
breed,  bringing  his  hand  down  over  his  face, 
smearing  it  with  blood. 

The  white  man  nodded. 

"  Me  Lute  —  him  Pilute  —  hit  um  lock.  You 
see  um  blood?"  and  he  swiped  his  smeared 
face  again. 

"  Yes,"  said  one  of  the  detectives.    "  You  see 
um  whisk-shop  up  gulch?  " 
5 


66  FRONTIER   STORIES 

"  Yes,  me  no  see  um,"  said  the  Indian. 
"Damn!  me  kill  um;"  and  driving  his  heels 
into  his  horse's  sides  he  dashed  away  down 
the  trail. 

Now  because  he  knew  the  other  man,  if  he 
followed,  would  overtake  him,  or  because  he 
wanted  to  fight,  or  because  he  was  crazy  drunk, 
the  Piute  had  stopped  a  little  way  down  the 
gulch,  and  when  his  pursuer  hove  in  sight, 
the  fight  began.  The  two  detectives,  hearing 
the  shooting,  trailed  back  and  saw  the  excite 
ment.  It  was  not  a  cause  in  which  a  white  man 
felt  called  upon  to  take  sides,  and  so  the  men, 
remaining  at  a  safe  distance,  watched  these  half- 
wild  Indians  sail  into  each  other.  When  they 
had  exchanged  a  few  shots,  and  each  had 
received  slight  wounds,  they  dismounted  and 
standing  beside  their  horses  aimed  deliberately, 
and  as  accurately  as  drunken  men  can,  at  each 
other.  When  one  six-shooter  had  been  emptied, 
another  was  pulled,  and  when  both  were  empty 
they  were  reloaded  with  what  skill  the  com 
batants  could  command.  Being  discouraged 
the  two  men  left  their  horses  and  walked  slowly 
toward  each  other,  firing  as  they  advanced. 


VALLEY   TAN  67 


The  Ute  fell,  and  the  other,  standing,  continued 
to  fire.  The  Ute  struggled  to  his  feet  and 
advanced,  firing  again.  The  two  Indians  finally 
came  face  to  face  in  the  narrow  trail,  and  neither 
sought  to  shield  himself  from  the  other's  mur 
derous  fire,  but  sought  only  to  slay  his  opponent. 
The  men  who  saw  the  fight  say  there  was  some 
thing  pathetic  in  the  picture  of  these  two-legged 
animals  walking  deliberately  to  death.  It  was 
not  brave,  it  was  beastly.  It  was  like  two 
vicious  dogs,  mad  with  the  smell  of  blood, 
devouring  each  other.  Again  the  Ute  went 
down,  and  a  moment  later  the  other  sank  to 
the  ground.  Now  they  rested  on  their  elbows 
and  gave  each  other  a  parting  shot.  The  two 
men  waited  for  some  moments  and  then  ap 
proached  the  battle  scene.  A  camp  robber 
was  screaming  on  a  cedar  bough  above  the 
prostrate  figures,  and  looking  into  the  distorted 
faces  of  the  Ute  and  Piute,  who  were  both 
dead. 

An  hour  later  the  U.  S.  officers  had  taken 
possession  of  the  moonshine  mill  and  the 
remaining  proprietor ;  and  that  was  the  end  of 
the  "  valley  tan  "  industry  at  Windy  Gulch. 


IN   THE    HOSPITAL. 

\  T  7E  were  in  the  hospital  together,  Wilson 
V  V  and  I,  —  in  the  same  ward.  I  was  ill 
from  the  effects  of  bucking  snow  in  the  moun 
tains,  and  he  had  been  hurt  in  a  collision  in  the 
Trinidad  yards.  He  was  the  travelling  engineer 
of  the  road,  and  while  he  was  asleep  in  Colonel 
Ricker's  special,  a  standard-gauge  engine  had 
crashed  into  the  car  and  Wilson  had  had  his  right 
leg  broken  above  the  knee.  Dr.  O'Connor, 
the  chief  surgeon,  had  rigged  a  pulley  at  the 
foot  of  Wilson's  bed  and  was  pulling  his  leg. 
A  piece  of  bell-cord  was  fastened  to  the  pa 
tient's  foot,  passed  over  the  pulley,  and  loaded 
down  with  as  many  weights  as  the  house  sur 
geon  considered  necessary.  Wilson  was  fifty 
years  old  and  the  process  of  knitting  the 
broken  bone  together  was  extremely  painful. 
It  grew  so  serious  at  one  time  that  we  were 
alarmed.  The  sufferer  was  thrown  into  a  fever 
and  talked  "  out  of  his  head."  Away  in  the 


72  FRONTIER  STORIES 

night  when  the  nurse  nodded  over  against  the 
wall,  Wilson,  delirious,  told  me  some  wonderful 
tales.  My  friend's  attendant  was  an  Italian 
who  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  moans  of  the 
inmates  of  the  institution.  Sometimes  when 
the  place  was  still,  and  he  thought  I  was  asleep, 
he  would  hang  an  extra  weight  on  Wilson's 
string,  and  then  when  the  patient's  moans  had 
put  the  Mafia  to  sleep,  I  would  steal  over  and 
take  it  off.  Often  since,  when  I  have  seen 
Wilson  limping,  I  have  thought  seriously  on 
what  I  did ;  for  the  more  weight  the  patient 
bore,  the  longer  his  leg  would  be,  and  it  was 
full  half  an  inch  short  when  he  was  able  to 
walk ;  but  it  was  hard  for  me  to  see  him  suffer 
so  and  to  hear  him  moan. 

"  Frank,"  said  I  one  day  when  he  was  able 
to  sit  up  in  bed,  "you  used  to  tell  the  best 
Indian  stories  when  the  fever  was  high  that  I 
ever  heard." 

When  I  had  retold  some  of  them  to  him,  he 
took  off  his  glasses  and  declared  that  what  he 
had  said  in  his  delirium  was  wholly  true.  He 
had  been  the  engineer  on  the  construction 
train  which  laid  the  track  of  the  Kansas  Pa- 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL  73 

cific.  "  I  have  often  run  fifty  miles  without 
being  out  of  sight  of  buffalo,"  said  he.  "  I 
have  seen  a  single  band  that  made  a  proces 
sion  so  long  that  you  could  see  neither  the 
head  nor  the  tail  of  the  herd.  They  were 
interesting,  but  not  nearly  so  much  so  as  the 
Indians  were.  I  remember  one  morning  our 
conductor  took  a  rifle  and  went  out  to  shoot  a 
buffalo  for  breakfast.  Our  camp  was  in  a 
little  valley,  along  one  side  of  which  ran  a  high 
chalk  bluff.  We  had  seen  no  Indians  for 
nearly  a  week,  and  so  were  getting  careless. 
The  conductor  was  stalking  a  herd,  hugging 
the  bluffs,  when  he  was  surprised  by  a  band  of 
Indians  who  began  to  shower  arrows  at  him 
from  the  top  of  the  wall.  He  must  have  seen 
that  they  could  not  descend  so  steep  a  cliff, 
but  instead  of  retreating  across  the  open  vale 
out  of  the  reach  of  their  arrows,  he  sought 
refuge  under  the  bluff.  Here  for  a  time  he 
was  secure.  A  line  of  redskins  stood  upon 
the  wall  ready  to  fill  his  back  with  arrows  the 
moment  he  started  to  fly,  while  others  with 
clubs,  tomahawks,  and  rocks  began  the  work  of 
crumbling  the  shelf-like  wall  away  in  order  to 


74  FRONTIER  STORIES 

reach  their  victim.  For  nearly  an  hour  the 
wild  yells  of  the  bloodthirsty  hair-lifters  filled 
his  ears  and  froze  his  blood.  At  first  the  fall 
ing  debris  dropped  some  feet  in  front  of  him, 
but  as  the  Indians  by  constant  stamping  and 
beating,  wore  the  projecting  shelf  away,  the 
broken  rock  began  to  pile  high  in  front  of 
him,  and  rolling  about  his  feet  threatened  to 
bury  him  alive.  Now  the  red  villains,  hanging 
over  the  wall,  began  to  send  arrows  at  him. 
The  cloud  of  dust  made  by  the  falling  rock 
and  dirt  made  it  impossible  for  the  conductor 
to  use  his  rifle  when  the  Indians  poked  their 
painted  faces  over  the  wall.  The  most  he 
could  do  was  to  discharge  his  rifle  at  random 
occasionally  to  show  them  that  he  was  still 
alive  and  fighting.  Almost  before  he  was 
aware  of  it  he  found  himself  a  prisoner.  The 
bits  of  rock  had  piled  up  about  his  feet  until 
he  found  it  impossible  to  move.  There  was 
nothing  now  to  hope  for,  as  he  knew  well  that 
his  tormentors  would  never  give  over  the  fight 
until  he  was  either  killed  by  an  arrow  or  buried 
alive. 

"  When   an  hour  had  gone  by  and  he  did 


IN   THE  HOSPITAL  75 

not  return  a  party  went  to  look  for  him.  In  a 
little  while  we  came  within  sight  of  the  band 
of  murderers  on  the  cliff  and  readily  guessed 
that  the  conductor  was  being  besieged. 

"  Spurring  our  horses  to  a  dead  run  we 
charged  the  band,  and  when  within  rifle  range 
began  to  pour  the  lead  into  them.  For  a  time 
they  withstood  the  storm  bravely,  but  never  an 
arrow  was  aimed  at  us. 

"An  Indian  would  hang  over  the  wail,  two 
or  three  of  his  companions  holding  on  to  his 
feet,  and  send  a  poisoned  arrow  after  the  con 
ductor.  Some  of  them  were  wounded  or 
killed  by  our  bullets,  but  that  seemed  to  make 
them  the  more  determined  to  kill  the  prisoner. 
We  were  by  no  means  anxious  to  approach 
within  reach  of  their  arrows,  but  the  problem 
of  rescuing  the  conductor  was  becoming  a 
serious  one.  Even  now  he  might  be  dead,  for 
we  could  neither  see  nor  hear  him,  so  great 
were  the  din  and  the  dust.  Finding  it  impos 
sible  to  drive  the  red  devils  away  from  their 
murderous  work,  our  commander  ordered  us  to 
charge,  and  galloping  up  to  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  bluff  we  halted,  and  taking  delib- 


76  FRONTIER  STORIES 

erate  aim  let  fly  a  shower  of  lead  that  sent  a 
half-dozen  Indians  to  the  earth.  At  that  mo 
ment  an  Indian,  who  had  just  discharged  an 
arrow  at  the  imprisoned  conductor,  leaped  to 
his  feet  and  gave  an  exultant  yell.  Instantly 
the  whole  band,  taking  up  the  cry,  disappeared 
behind  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

"  Leaving  a  majority  of  our  force  on  guard, 
the  captain  and  I  approached  toward  where  the 
Indians  had  been  aiming  their  arrows.  So  dense 
was  the  cloud  of  dust  that  hung  about  the  hill  in 
the  still  morning  air  that  we  were  unable,  for  a 
time,  to  locate  the  unfortunate  man.  To  our 
calls  he  made  no  reply,  and  we  knew  that  he 
was  beyond  human  aid.  When  we  finally  found 
him  he  was  still  standing  upright,  with  the 
chalk  from  the  bluff  piled  above  his  waist.  A 
number  of  arrows  were  sticking  in  his  arms 
and  shoulders.  Only  the  small  end  of  one 
stood  above  his  coat.  It  had  entered  just 
behind  his  collar-bone,  near  the  left  side  of 
his  neck,  and,  passing  downward,  the  point  of 
it  had  pierced  his  heart.  His  head  hung  upon 
his  breast,  while  his  helpless  hands  rested  upon 
the  rocks  that  had  been  heaped  around  him. 


IN   THE  HOSPITAL 


77 


"  It  would  be  as  impossible  for  me  to  describe 
the  expression  on  the  dead  man's  face  as  it 
has  been  for  me  to  forget  it.  It  was  a  sight  to 
take  out  of  a  white  man's  heart  any  whit  of 
Christian  sympathy  he  may  have  harbored  there 
for  his  red  brother.  It  was  hard  to  look  upon 
there,  but  when  we  had  carried  the  poor  fel 
low's  body  back  to  his  home  and  borne  it  up 
to  the  door  of  a  little  white  cottage  to  the  very 
spot  upon  which  he  had  kissed  his  wife  and 
baby  "  good-by "  only  a  few  days  before,  it 
was  harder  still.  When  his  gray-haired  mother 
bent  her  stiff  knees  beside  the  dead  man, 
when  his  wife  wept  over  his  coffin,  and  his 
blue-eyed  baby  stood  staring  at  the  cold  white 
face,  unable  to  understand,  there  crept  into  my 
heart  a  feeling  of  bitter  hatred  for  those  red 
devils  which  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  overcome;"  and  the  sick  man  sighed  and 
turned  away  his  face  to  hide  whatever  he  had 
in  his  eyes. 


Btebop  of  price 


THE   BISHOP   OF    PRICE. 

IN  the  face  of  the  well-established  fact  that 
the  earth  is  full  of  gold,  and  the  other  fact 
that  the  Uintah  Indian  reservation  is  about  to 
be  thrown  open  to  prospectors  and  others,  this 
story  of  Smith's  will  be  of  interest.  You  may 
not  find  the  mine,  but  you  can't  fail  to  find 
Smith  of  Utah.  No  doubt  you  will  find  him  at 
the  railway  station  wherever  and  whenever  you 
leave  the  train.  There  are  as  many  Smiths  as 
there  are  Youngs  in  Utah. 

"  I  Ve  read  your  story  of  the  Peso-la-ki 
mine,"  said  Smith.  "  It's  a  good  story,  but  I 
know  a  better  one,  because  it 's  the  story  of  a 
better  mine.  Caleb  Rhoads,  a  rich  Mormon, 
formerly  Bishop  of  Price,  could  tell  you  more, 
but  he  won't.  Some  people  who  had  money 
and  faith,  offered  the  bishop  $10,000  to  tell 
them,  and  he  refused.  Forty  years  ago,"  con 
tinued  Smith  of  Utah,  "  Caleb  Rhoads  and  his 
brother  found  a  rich  placer  in  the  Uintah  reser- 
6 


82  FRONTIER   STORIES 

vation,  but  the  Indians  found  the  Rhoads,  and 
had  trouble  with  them. 

"  The  prospect  was  a  rich  one,  and  the  two 
brothers  concluded  to  fight  for  it.  It  was  so 
rich  in  gold  that  they  could  shake  enough 
yellow  meal  out  of  a  single  pan  of  dirt  to  fill 
the  bowl  of  an  ordinary  cob  pipe. 

"  Well,  the  Indians  came  and  saw,  and 
killed  Caleb's  brother  and  crippled  Caleb.  It 
was  almost  a  miracle  that  he  escaped.  As  it 
was,  he  brought  away  enough  flint  and  lead 
to  sink  a  raft,  all  comfortably  cached  in  his 
hide.  He  is  a  stayer,  is  this  same  Caleb 
Rhoads,  and  he  went  back  the  following  sum 
mer  and  brought  out  a  goodly  bag  of  dust. 

"  He  continued  to  go  every  summer  for 
years  and  years,  and  his  neighbors  marvelled  at 
the  easy  life  he  led,  and  some  of  them  offered 
to  be  company  for  him,  but  the  wily  Caleb 
wouldn't  have  it.  Once  they  made  up  a 
jackpot  and  offered  to  buy  a  share  in  these 
annual  sorties,  but  they  were  not  for  sale.  At 
length,  when  four  decades  had  passed  away 
and  Caleb  had  grown  rich  with  little  or  no 
exertion,  some  of  his  neighbors  determined  to 


THE   BISHOP  OF  PRICE  83 

follow  the  prospector  into  the  hills.  Caleb 
heard  of  it  and  made  his  friends  welcome,  but 
refused  to  be  responsible  for  the  followers. 

" '  If  you  get  lost  in  the  hills,'  said  he, 
'you'll  have  yourselves  to  blame,  for  I  sha'n't 
hunt  you  out.' 

"  Well,  they  all  agreed  to  keep  up  with  the 
prospector,  and  arrangements  were  made  ac 
cordingly  for  a  long  journey.  Caleb  gave  out 
the  day  and  date  upon  which  he  would  vamose, 
but  no  one  believed  him.  For  a  week  they 
watched  his  house  as  terriers  watch  a  rathole, 
and  Caleb  slept  through  it  all  like  an  innocent 
babe.  Finally,  when  the  last  night  came  the 
men  who  were  to  go  with  the  prospector  were 
so  sure  that  he  would  steal  away  that  they  had 
their  horses  saddled  and  ready  all  night.  To 
their  great  surprise,  Caleb  never  stirred  until 
daylight,  when  he  started  his  men  out  to  '  call ' 
his  neighbors  who  were  to  accompany  him. 
That  made  the  men  feel  so  mean  that  they 
outdid  each  other  in  helping  the  prospector  to 
pack.  One  of  the  party  suggested  that  Caleb 
might  be  luring  them  out  for  the  purpose  of 
losing  them,  and  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that 


84  FRONTIER  STORIES 

they  might  better  keep  watch  the  first  night, 
but  the  others  only  laughed  at  him. 

" '  He  can't  lose  me,  Charley,'  said  one  of 
the  young  men ;  and  so  they  ceased  to  be 
suspicious  of  Caleb. 

"  In  order,  as  he  said,  to  reach  a  favorite 
camping-ground,  they  were  obliged  to  travel 
far  into  the  night,  and  when  they  had  finally 
camped,  and  had  supper,  Caleb  kept  them  up 
for  hours  telling  them  wonderful  tales  of  the 
wild  country  to  which  he  would  lead  them. 
When  at  last  they  rolled  up  in  their  blankets 
the  weary  men  slept  soundly  until  Caleb  called 
them  to  get  breakfast.  He  apologized  for 
having  to  get  them  out  so  early,  but  they  must 
make  thirty-five  miles  that  day  across  an  arm 
of  the  desert  before  they  could  find  water, 
which  in  that  country  is  only  to  be  found  in 
rock  basins,  or  tanks,  as  the  cowboys  call  them. 
All  day  long  the  four  men  and  eight  horses 
trailed  across  the  arm  of  this  shipless  sea,  with 
out  food  or  water  for  themselves  or  their 
animals. 

"What  with  their  all-night  watch  at  Price, 
followed  by  a  hard  day's  work  and  a  short 


THE  BISHOP  OF  PRICE  85 

sleep,  they  were  heart-sick  and  saddle-sore 
long  before  the  fringe  of  pine  that  marked  the 
place  of  water  came  in  sight.  By  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon  the  foothills  seemed  to  be 
within  rifle  range  of  them.  When  the  sun 
went  down  the  hills  began  to  retire,  as  it  were, 
and  finally  melted  away  in  the  darkness.  The 
horses  were  tired,  and  the  pack  horses  had  to 
be  urged  on  constantly,  and  now  went  along 
doggedly,  holding  their  dusty  noses  close  to  the 
sand.  Presently  the  moon  came  out  of  the 
desert  a  little  way  behind  them  and  shone  on 
the  evergreen  trees  that  garnished  the  foothills. 
Now  they  came  to  a  little  stream,  not  more 
than  a  foot  wide,  that  ran  across  the  trail. 

"  The  famished  horses  stopped  short.  Caleb, 
dismounting,  scooped  up  a  handful  of  the 
water,  tasted  it,  and  shouted  to  the  men  to 
push  on.  The  water  was  poisoned  with  alkali. 
When  at  last  they  found  water,  the  men  were 
utterly  done  out.  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
Caleb  persuaded  them  to  cook  some  supper, 
for  they  were  all  for  sleeping,  hungry  as  they 
were.  The  good  captain  cheered  them  with 
the  assurance  that  they  would  have  no  more 


86  FRONTIER  STORIES 

such  work.  They  were  in  God's  country  now, 
he  told  them,  where  water  and  game  could  be 
found  in  abundance. 

"  <  To-morrow,'  said  Caleb,  '  you  can  go  as 
you  please,  for  I  assure  you  that  I  am  not  fond 
of  these  forced  marches.'  " 

"  That  night  when  they  had  finished  supper, 
a  couple  of  Indians  came  up  to  the  fire  and 
begged,  or  rather  demanded,  food.  They  were 
inclined  to  be  ugly,  so  the  white  men  fed  them, 
but  they  refused  to  go  away.  They  wanted 
tobacco,  which  was  given  them,  and  then  they 
asked  for  whiskey.  They  could  not  have 
whiskey,  Caleb  told  them.  '  Me  know  how  get 
whisk,'  said  an  ugly  savage,  tapping  the  rifle 
that  rested  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm.  Now  the 
young  men  who  had  come  out  to  fathom  the 
mysteries  of  the  old  Mormon's  wealth,  grew 
suddenly  homesick.  To  the  surprise  and 
amazement  of  his  companions,  Caleb  rose 
deliberately,  walked  over  to  the  savage,  and 
began  to  kick  him  out  of  camp.  What 
surprised  them  still  more  was  that  the  Indian 
made  no  show  of  resistance,  but  went  his  way. 

"  This  little  incident  put  away  any  fear  that 


THE  BISHOP  OF  PRICE  87 

might  otherwise  have  broken  the  much-needed 
rest  of  the  weary  voyagers,  and  in  a  little  while 
they  were  sleeping  like  dead  men.  But  Caleb 
could  not  sleep,  —  not  because  he  had  any  fear 
of  the  Indians,  but  he  could  not  afford  it. 
Shortly  after  midnight  he  untied  his  two  horses 
and  led  them  away.  When  out  of  sight  and 
hearing  of  the  camp  he  stopped,  opened  his 
paniers,  and  took  out  eight  ready-made  mocca 
sins.  He  put  one  on  each  of  the  eight  feet 
that  went  with  his  two  horses  and  stole  softly 
away.  In  the  course  of  an  hour  he  found 
water  and  camped,  but  he  made  no  fire.  As 
soon  as  it  was  light  he  set  out  on  his  journey, 
the  muffled  feet  of  his  horses  making  little  or 
no  noise,  and  leaving  tracks  in  the  sand  on  the 
selvage  of  the  desert  that  looked  like  Indian 
tracks  going  the  other  way. 

"  The  young  men  slept  until  the  sun  was  up, 
and  when  they  awoke  looked  very  foolish. 
They  found  the  tracks  of  Caleb's  horses,  and 
without  stopping  to  make  coffee,  took  the  trail. 
In  an  hour  they  lost  it  on  a  barren  sweep  of 
sandstone,  and  they  never  found  it  again. 
When  they  had  grown  weary  of  the  search  they 
halted  for  breakfast. 


88  FRONTIER  STORIES 

"  Like  hundreds  of  others  they  had  acquired 
that  beastly  American  habit  of  drinking  before 
breakfast,  and  now  when  they  sought  the  jug 
they  found  a  note  from  their  late  leader.  It 
was  neatly  folded  and  had  one  corner  caught 
playfully  in  the  mouth  of  the  jug  and  held  there 
by  the  cork. 

"  It  was  a  very  brief  message,  no  date  and 
no  signature,  but  it  was  pithy  and  to  the  point. 
Only  one  of  the  men  had  seen  it,  and  now  his 
companions  called  to  him  to  read  it.  One  of 
the  men  had  paused  with  the  brown  jug  thrown 
above  his  curved  elbow,  his  hand  on  the  handle 
and  his  mouth  stealing  to  the  mouth  of  the 
jug,  as  the  mouth  of  a  Mexican  maiden  glides 
to  the  kiss  of  her  caballero.  At  the  very 
moment  when  the  man  was  about  to  read 
aloud  the  old  bishop's  last  message,  a  half- 
dozen  Indians  jumped  into  the  camp.  One  of 
them  took  the  jug  gently  from  the  bewildered 
prospector,  smelled  it,  and  took  a  drink. 

"A  very  large  man,  who  was  extremely 
dirty,  ugly,  pockmarked,  and  generally  unhand 
some,  kicked  the  Indian  and  reached  for  the 
jug.  Before  drinking  he  kicked  the  Indian 


THE  BISHOP  OF  PRICE  89 

again  and  swore  at  him  in  a  blending  of 
Spanish,  Indian,  and  bad  English.  Manifestly 
this  was  the  leader. 

"  By  the  time  this  important  individual  had 
quenched  his  thirst  a  dozen  Indians  had  come 
into  camp.  They  ate  what  they  could  find, 
drank  all  the  whiskey,  and  signed  to  the  white 
men  to  get  up.  When  they  were  mounted  the 
pockmarked  man  tapped  his  rifle  and  said 
1  Vamos  ! ' 

"The  three  men,  thoroughly  frightened, 
reined  their  horses  down  the  gulch. 

"  When  they  had  left  the  foothills  far  behind 
them  and  felt  the  sun  hot  on  the  back  of  their 
necks,  one  of  them  asked  the  man  who  had 
Caleb's  letter  to  read  it.  '  Listen,  then/  said 
the  man  who  was  riding  in  front,  and  who  now 
held  up  the  sheet  of  white  paper  ;  and  then  he 
read:  'Adios.'" 


A   QUIET    DAY    IN    CREEDE. 

IT  was  a  quiet  day  in  Creede  Camp,  in  the 
morning  of  the  summer  of  '92.  Most  of 
the  miners  were  away  in  the  hills,  many  of  the 
gamblers  and  others  of  the  night  shift  were  still 
sleeping,  though  it  was  now  4  p.  M.  A  string 
of  burros,  laden  with  heavy  loads  of  boards, 
which  they  were  about  to  drag  away  up  to  the 
Last  Chance,  stood  dreaming  in  San  Luis 
avenue  and  having  their  pictures  taken  by  the 
writer.  Some  fishermen,  with  long  cane  poles 
thrown  over  their  shoulders,  were  trailing  out 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  town,  in  the  direction 
of  the  Rio  Grande.  A  string  of  heavy  ore- 
wagons  was  coming  down  the  mountain  from 
the  Amethyst  mine.  The  brake  on  the  forward 
wagon  gave  way  when  the  team  was  nearly 
down  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  instantly  the 
heavy  load  shot  forward,  and  the  poor  animals 
— .  there  were  six  of  them — bounded  away 
in  a  mad  effort  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the 


94  FRONTIER  STORIES 

heavy  load.  The  wheel  horses  appeared  to 
understand  that  they  were  expected  to  hold 
the  wagon  back,  and  they  did  what  they  could ; 
but  the  force  of  the  great  wagon  threw  them 
off  their  feet,  and  when  they  fell  slid  them 
along  the  rocky  road  to  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
grinding  and  crushing  their  legs  under  the 
wheels,  and  when  the  wagon  finally  stopped 
they  were  both  dead.  All  this  happened  just 
above  and  in  full  view  of  the  town,  so  that 
many  of  the  people  saw  it  and  heard  the 
poor  animals  cry,  almost  as  a  human  being 
would  cry  for  help,  while  they  were  being  run 
down  and  killed  by  the  ore-wagon. 

A  moment  later  the  crowd  which  had  col 
lected  to  view  the  wreck  had  its  attention  di 
verted  by  a  baby  burro  that  now  came  reeling 
down  the  principal  street  with  a  well-developed 
"jag"  and  a  gait  like  Riley's  "  wabbledy " 
calf.  Some  hoodlums  had  given  the  burro 
beer,  and  he  was  as  drunk  as  a  man. 

A  sorry-looking  young  woman  was  working 
the  shops  and  saloons  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
avenue.  She  carried  a  long  sheet  of  writing- 


A    QUIET  DAY  IN  CREEDE  95 

paper,  upon  which  she  asked  people  to  put 
their  names,  and  opposite  their  names  the 
amount  of  their  subscriptions.  One  of  the 
girls  had  died  the  night  before,  and  this  money 
was  asked  to  pay  some  one  to  dig  a  hole  at  the 
top  of  the  hill  and  to  hire  an  express  wagon 
to  haul  the  girl  up  there.  When  the  woman 
came  to  the  Leadville  dance  hall  she  entered 
and  was  greeted  sadly  by  another  woman  who 
stood  over  behind  a  low  railing  which  extended 
from  the  end  of  the  bar  to  the  front  of  the  tent, 
fencing  off  a  little  space  which  served  as  an  office 
for  the  proprietor  and  the  woman,  who  was  a  si 
lent  partner  in  the  firm.  The  visitor  pushed  the 
paper  over  toward  the  man  —  a  small,  sallow- 
looking  man  of  thirty-two,  who  was  ever  fidget 
ing  and  glancing  at  the  door  of  whatever  house 
he  happened  to  be  in.  The  man  glanced  down 
the  column,  saw  "  Soapy  Smith,  $5,"  and,  as  he 
hated  "  Soapy,"  he  immediately  raised  him  five, 
gave  the  woman  the  money,  and  wrote  just 
under  his  name  and  the  ten,  "  Charity  cover- 
eth  a  multitude  of  sins."  Then  he  passed  out 
from  behind  the  bar  and  began  walking  slowly 
to  the  rear  end  of  the  long  room.  The  woman 


96  FRONTIER  STORIES 

with  the  sorry  face  and  the  long  white  paper 
passed  out.  Upon  the  threshold  she  met  a  man 
in  miner's  clothes,  and  even  as  she  turned  to  look 
at  him  a  very  short  man  rode  up  to  the  door  of 
the  tent  and  handed  a  double-barrelled  shot 
gun  to  the  man  at  the  entrance.  As  the  miner- 
looking  man  entered  the  tent  with  the  gun  the 
woman  with  the  paper  turned  as  if  she  would 
follow  him,  for  she  feared  that  the  stranger 
might  do  violence,  reluctant  as  she  was  to 
believe  that  a  man  in  a  refined  mining  centre 
would  resort  to  the  use  of  so  clumsy,  not  to  say 
unconventional,  a  shooting  iron  as  a  shot-gun. 
"  Hello,  Bob  !  "  called  the  man  with  the  gun, 
and  as  the  keeper  of  the  dance  hall  turned  he 
raised  the  weapon  and  let  go  both  barrels. 
The  shot,  without  scattering,  entered  the  throat 
of  the  victim  and  carried  his  gold  collar-button 
out  through  the  back  of  his  neck. 

The  report  of  the  shot-gun  startled  the  whole 
camp,  and  as  the  Leadville  was  directly  oppo 
site  my  hotel,  I  rushed  over  and  was  almost  the 
first  man  in  the  place.  One  man  had  preceded 
me,  and  as  I  entered  he  came  out  and  shouted. 
"  Bob  Ford's  dead  !  " 


A    QUIET  DAY  IN  CREEDE  97 

At  the  moment  I  entered,  the  only  person  in 
the  room  was  the  insignificant-looking  woman 
in  the  little  office.  She  was  weeping.  She 
knew  me  as  the  editor  of  the  morning  paper, 
and  at  once  began  to  pour  out  the  story  of 
Bob's  virtues.  "He  had  planned,"  she  said, 
"to  do  much  good."  "Yes,"  said  I,  "it  is 
reported  that  he  intended  to  kill  off  the  entire 
' Chronicle'  force,  including  the  editor." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  for 
the  place  was  filling  up  rapidly,  "but  he  didn't 
mean  it  —  he  tole  me  so  —  he  did  n't  have  it 
in  fur  you-all  a  little  bit.  But  say,"  she 
continued,  waving  a  hand  in  the  direction  of 
the  corpse,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  a  fresh 
flood  of  tears,  "just  to  think  they  should  shoot 
him  with  that  kind  of  a  gun  —  it  —  just  breaks 
—  my  heart;  "  and  she  leaned  her  head  upon 
the  bar  and  wept  bitterly. 

Presently  she  lifted  her  head,  dried  her  eyes, 
and  continued  :  — 

"  Why,  Bob  would  n't  uv  killed  a  coyote  with 

a   shot-gun  —  it's    a  coward    gun.     When   he 

killed  Jesse  James,   the  bravest  man   'at   ever 

lived,  an'  the  deadest  shot,  he  dun  it  with  a  45, 

7 


98  FRONTIER  STORIES 

an'  ef  he'd  'a'  come  down  to  clear  out  the 
*  Chronicle/  which  he  woulden',  he  'd  uv  come 
with  his  two  han's  an'  his  six-shooter,  an'  he  'd 
'a'  had  you-all  jumpin'  thu  the  winders  an' 
scootin'  fur  th'  willers  'fore  yer  could  uv  raised 
a  ban'." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  glancing  toward  the  rear  of 
the  room,  to  make  sure  he  was  still  there, 
"  Bob  's  all  right.  He  's  a  good  fellow  —  now." 

I  had  known  Ford.  He  was  the  first  man 
to  whom  I  was  introduced  upon  my  first  visit 
to  the  camp.  He  had  been  our  guide,  and 
had  shown  Judge  Rooker  and  me  the  camp  by 
candle-light.  It  was  upon  this  occasion  that  I 
noticed  his  nervousness.  If  a  man  came  in 
and  left  the  door  open,  Ford  would  slip  back 
and  shut  it.  If  there  was  a  mirror  over  the 
bar,  he  always  kept  his  eyes  on  it,  not  to  see 
himself,  but  to  observe  those  who  passed  to 
and  fro  behind  him. 

In  a  pleasant  way,  I  asked  him  if  he  was 
expecting  some  one.  He  answered,  smiling 
sadly,  that  he  was  always  expecting  some  one. 
He  had  saved  his  life  once  in  Kansas  City  by 
looking  into  a  mirror.  A  friend  of  the  man 


A    QUIET  DAY  IN  CREEDE  99 

he  had  murdered  entered  the  room,  saw  Ford's 
face  in  the  mirror,  and  instantly  reached  for 
his  gun.  Ford,  lifting  his  glass,  saw  the  man, 
and  the  moment  their  eyes  met,  the  man 
weakened  and  passed  on.  My  friend  the 
judge,  from  force  of  habit,  I  presume,  began  to 
question  Ford  about  the  killing  of  Jesse  James, 
and  the  fellow  told  us  that  he  had  been  led  to 
believe  that  if  he  killed  James,  whose  friend 
and  messenger  he  had  been,  he  would  be  the 
greatest  man  in  Missouri.  That  meant  a  great 
deal  to  this  boy  of  twenty-two,  for  outside  of 
Missouri  there  was  little  worth  striving  for. 
And  then,  to  justify  his  cowardly  act,  he  related 
that  it  had  been  planned  by  James  that  a  bank 
should  be  robbed  shortly,  and  Ford  had  been 
told  that  he  was  to  enter  the  bank  with  James, 
who  would  quietly  shoot  him,  as  he  had  begun 
to  mistrust  the  "  kid."  All  this  Ford  pretended 
to  believe.  He  was  confident  that  he  would 
have  been  murdered  in  a  little  while  if  he  had 
not  put  a  bullet  through  Jesse's  back  while  he 
was  hanging  a  picture. 

Kelly,    the   "tough   citizen"    who  removed 
Ford,  seemed,  strangely  enough,  to  regard  the 


IOO  FRONTIER  STORIES 

killing  of  this  man  much  as  Ford  had  looked 
upon  the  killing  of  Jesse  James.  Ford  was  an 
open  enemy  of  society,  and  only  a  month  be 
fore  his  death  had  closed  all  the  business  houses 
and  put  the  camp  to  bed  at  nine  p.  M.  The 
morning  paper  had  suggested  that  Ford  be  in 
formed  that  he  would  be  expected,  in  the  future, 
to  refrain  from  shutting  up  the  town,  leave  the 
camp,  or  be  hanged,  just  as  he  pleased ;  and 
for  that  he  swore  he  would  kill  off  the  work 
ing  force,  from  the  editor-in-chief  down  to 
"Freckled  Jimmie,"  the  devil.  . 

However,  Kelly  was  wrong.  He  was  con 
demned  even  by  Ford's  enemies  for  his 
cowardly  act,  just  as  the  public  had  disapproved 
of  the  murder  of  Jesse  James.  All  agreed  that 
the  removal  of  Jesse  would  facilitate  the  move 
ment  of  trains  in  Missouri,  and  that  Ford's 
absence  would  add  much  to  the  peace  and 
quiet  of  Creede  camp,  but  no  man  admires  a 
coward.  So  Kelly  was  arrested,  and  later,  when 
he  ran  up  against  Judge  (now  Representative) 
Bell's  "  equity  mill,"  he  was  surprised  to  receive 
a  life  sentence  in  the  pen. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  following  the  kill- 


A    QUIET  DAY  IN  CREEDS  '  IOI 

ing,  a  half-hundred  people  assembled  in  a  store 
room,  where  religious  services  were  held. 
They  brought  Ford's  coffin  and  placed  it  upon 
a  bench,  and  then  the  preacher  got  up  and 
preached  a  funeral  sermon.  He  was  not  very 
enthusiastic,  I  thought;  but  he  had  a  tough 
client  and  a  hard  case.  He  took  for  his  text, 
if  he  could  be  said  to  have  taken  anything,  the 
line  which  Ford  had  written  upon  the  white 
paper,  "Charity  covereth  a  multitude  of  sins," 
and  made  the  most  of  it. 

When  he  had  finished,  an  express  wagon 
backed  up  to  the  door,  they  put  the  dead  man 
in,  and  the  wagon  wound  away  up  the  trail  to  a 
level  spot  above  the  town,  where  the  unwept 
and  unfortunate  girl  had  been  buried  the  day 
Ford  died,  where  all  about  were  new-made 
graves,  where  Joe  Simmons  and  "Slanting 
Annie"  slept  side  by  side. 

The  autumn  winds  blow  bleak  and  chill, 
The  sighing,  quivering  aspen  waves 

Above  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
Above  the  unrecorded  graves, 

Where  halt,  abandoned  burros  feed, 

And  coyotes  call  —  and  this  is  Creede. 


jfuneral 


A   COWBOY'S    FUNERAL. 

NEARLY  twelve  months  have  elapsed  since 
the  "Creede  Chronicle  "  published  the 
story  of  Gambler  Joe  Simmons's  funeral,  which 
was  the  first  important  event  in  the  history  of 
that  new  camp.  Up  to  that  time  Joe  Simmons 
had  done  very  little  to  win  the  applause  of  the 
newspaper  fraternity,  but,  dying  as  he  did  on 
the  eve  of  the  first  issue  of  a  great  daily,  he 
made  the  hit  of  his  life,  got  a  good  send  off, 
and  helped  the  local  force  out  immensely. 
When,  on  the  morning  following  the  day  of 
Joe's  burial,  the  newsboys  marched  up  the 
narrow  streets  that  had  been  cut  through  the 
willows,  crying  :  "  Morning  Chronicle  ;  all  'bout 
Joe  Simmons'  fun'al  an'  shootin'  at  Bob  Ford's 
Dance  Hall,"  the  entire  edition  was  exhausted 
in  thirty  minutes.  All  the  gamblers  and  swift 
characters  bought  copies  for  their  scrap-books 
(and  in  those  days  the  history  of  Creede  was 
one  continual  round  of  scraps),  and  copies  to 


1O6  FRONTIER   STORIES 

send  away.  Probably  nine  hundred  out  of 
every  thousand  people  who  read  this  story, 
which  told  how  Soapy  Smith  presided  at  the 
grave,  opened  champagne,  and  said,  "  Now 
let  us  drink  to  Joe's  soul  over  there  —  if  there 
is  any  over  there,"  believed  that  what  they 
read  was  only  a  mining  romance ;  but  it  was 
wholly  true ;  and  the  great  daily,  I  am  proud 
to  say,  endureth  still,  a  menace  to  road  agents 
and  shell  men,  and  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  as 
crooked  a  City  Council  as  ever  embarrassed 
a  growing  community. 

Another  funeral,  equally  interesting,  came 
under  my  notice  on  the  desert  not  long  ago. 
A  party  of  cowboys  had  gone  to  Thompson's 
Springs,  a  small  town  in  Utah,  to  buy  supplies, 
and  while  there  filled  up  on  "  valley  tan"  and 
amused  themselves  by  shooting  at  the  toes  of  a 
tramp  to  see  him  dance.  A  bullet  from  a 
"  forty- five  "  glanced  from  the  frozen  ground, 
struck  a  young  man  who  had  gone  out  of  his 
way  to  ask  the  shooters  to  desist,  and  killed 
him.  Seeing  what  they  had  done,  the  cowboys 
fled,  but  were  pursued  by  a  sheriffs  posse,  and 
one  of  the  gang  was  fatally  shot.  The  leaden 


A    COWBOY'S  FUNERAL  107 

missile  from  a  Winchester  rifle  passed  entirely 
through  him,  and  he  began  to  sway  to  and  fro ; 
but  the  horse,  so  accustomed  to  carrying  men 
who  were  under  the  "  influence,"  kept  under 
the  form  of  the  dying  man  until  his  compan 
ions,  seeing  his  condition,  dashed  forward  and 
supported  him  until  his  horse  could  be  stopped. 
The  pursuing  party  were  now  pressing  them  so 
closely  that  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  The 
legs  of  the  lifeless  cowboy  were  lashed  to  the 
horse,  his  hands  tied  to  the  saddle  horn,  and 
a  man  rode  on  either  side  supporting  the  body 
until  it  stiffened  sufficiently  to  enable  it  to  keep 
its  place  in  the  saddle. 

All  night  they  dashed  away  over  a  trackless, 
treeless  plain,  camping  at  daybreak  on  the  San 
Rafael  River,  where  they  remained  all  that  day, 
having  hobbled  their  horses  in  a  side  canon, 
where  they  could  feed  and  go  down  to  the 
river  and  drink.  When  it  was  dark  again  the 
dead  cowboy  was  lashed  to  his  old  place  in  the 
saddle,  and  away  they  went,  over  a  soundless 
sea  of  sand. 

A  hundred  miles  had  been  placed  between 
the  scene  of  the  shooting  and  the  frightened 


IO8  FRONTIER  STORIES 

fugitives  when  they  camped  at  dawn  on  the 
desert,  not  more  than  200  yards  from  where 
we  were  sleeping.  They  had  little  to  fear  from 
us,  however,  as  they  outnumbered  us  two  to 
one,  —  my  party  consisting  of  a  travelling  com 
panion,  a  Mexican  guide,  and  myself. 

We  were  well  mounted,  and,  as  our  horses 
had  been  a  great  temptation  to  the  Navajos,  I 
was  afraid  they  might  be  to  these  wild  sons  of 
the  desert.  Being  thoroughly  frightened,  I 
walked  right  over  to  their  camp  to  show  them 
that  I  was  not,  —  making  by  this  movement  the 
same  cold  bluff  that  Benighted  Harry  made  on 
the  friendly  guide-post.  I  remember,  too,  that 
I  whistled  as  I  went  along. 

"Some  one  sick?"  I  asked,  glancing  at  a 
blanket  bed. 

"  Worse 'n  sick,"  was  the  reply.  "One  of 
our  gang  was  accidentally  shot  yesterday,  and 
we  Ve  stopped  here  to  cache  him." 

Poor,  unfortunate  fellow,  I  thought ;  it  did 
seem  such  a  lonely,  desolate  place  to  be  buried, 
and  I  hinted  as  much. 

"  Gist  what  he  wanted,  —  used  to  always 
say:  — 


A    COWBOYS  FUNERAL  1 09 

" '  I  want  no  fenced-in  graveyard, 

With  snorin'  souls  about ; 
Just  cache  me  in  the  desert, 
When  my  light  goes  out.' " 

"Did  your  dead  friend  write  verses?"  was 
my  next  question. 

"  Naw,  he  did  n't  write  verses  —  gist  writ 
poetry,  that 's  all.  Of  course  he  warn't  like 
your  eddicated  New  York  poets,  but  a  plain, 
God-built  chile  o'  nature.  Why,  he  was  every 
thing  that  was  good  in  this  layout,  and  here  's  a 
gang  that  will  be  about  as  cheerful  from  this  on 
as  a  mockin'  bird  with  the  tonsil-eat-us.  Gist 
ourt  to  heard  him  speak  the  '  Ship  o'  the 
Desert,'  and  'The  Luck  o'  Roarin'  Camp.' 
Always  carried  a  copy  of  Gene  Field's  Western 
verses.  Said  he  knowed  Field ;  used  to  follow 
him  down  to  the  midnight  train  at  St.  Joe,  gist 
to  hear  him  speak  <  Little  Willie '  to  the  ticket 
agent." 

As  the  speaker  concluded  he  stepped  over  to 
where  the  packs  and  saddles  were  and  lifted  a 
long  black  bottle  from  one  of  the  panniers,  and 
I  noticed  that  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 
Having  been  brought  up  by  poor  but  demo- 


IIO  FRONTIER   STORIES 

cratic  parents,  I  found  no  difficulty  in  doing 
what  I  was  expected  to  do,  and  then  I  gave 
the  bottle  to  the  next  man.  When  the  black 
assassin  came  back  to  the  leader  again  he  held 
it  up  between  him  and  the  sun,  which  was 
at  that  moment  swinging  up  from  the  earth, 
apparently  not  more  than  a  mile  away,  and 
took  a  long,  gurgling  drink. 

When  the  bottle  went  back  to  its  resting- 
place  it  was  empty,  and  it  was  evident  that  they 
had  been  drinking  before  my  arrival. 

The  black  bottle,  however,  is  a  great  boon, 
alike  to  the  light  and  the  heavy  drinker,  as  it 
enables  one  to  drink  much  or  little  without 
causing  comment. 

Under  the  mellowing  influence  of  the  brain 
destroyer  the  talking  man  became  very  sociable. 
I  was  interested  in  the  dead  man  —  this  "  God- 
built  chile  o'  nature  "  —  and  asked  to  be  told 
more  about  him,  how  he  happened  to  come 
West,  and  all. 

"It  was  like  this,"  he  began,  offering  me  a 
saddle  and  taking  a  seat  on  the  ground  him 
self.  "  It  was  like  this  :  Doc  was  a  friend  of 
the  Ford  boys,  and  when  Bob  disgraced  the 


A    COWBOY'S  FUNERAL  III 

name  by  killing  Jesse  James,  Doc's  girl  roasted 
the  whole  outfit  from  the  stage,  —  called  them 
murderers,  and  their  friends  associates  after  the 
fact.  Of  course  the  house  went  wild  —  had  to 
move  the  chandeliers  —  and  Doc  said  he  was 
afraid  the  '  queen  o'  the  ballet,'  as  he  called 
her,  would  get  tangled  in  her  miskeeter-bar 
dress  and  kick  herself  to  death.  Finally  the 
curtain  went  down,  and  Doc  tuck  his  stand  as 
usual  at  the  stage  door  to  see  her  home,  when 
lo,  and  behold  you  !  out  sweeps  his  fairy  on  the 
arm  of  one  of  the  James  gang ;  and  when  Doc 
sees  the  two  guns  on  the  fellow,  he  was  skeered 
to  death,  and  his  heart  was  broke  too. 

"  Too  proud  to  'pologize,  Doc  gist  sold  some 
lots  he  had  and  come  West  and  bought  a  bunch 
of  cattle  on  the  lower  end  of  the  desert.  In 
the  spring,  when  the  cottonwood  leaves  came 
out  and  the  birds  sang  in  the  willows  and 
the  wild  flowers  bloomed  on  the  banks  of  the 
Colorado,  he  used  to  stay  in  the  canons  whole 
days,  all  alone,  makin'  pictures  and  writin' 
poetry  'bout  that  girl. 

"  We  fellows  got  tired  seem'  Doc  git  the 
worst  of  it,  with  no  show  to  help  his  hand,  so 


112  FRONTIER   STORIES 

one  day  we  does  up  a  batch  of  pictures  and 
poetry  and  sends  it  out  to  the  settlements, 
billed  for  St.  Joe. 

"Bout  two  months,  maybe  three,  Doc  gits 
a  letter.  Course  we  was  all  on,  and  all  we  had 
to  do  was  to  watch  Doc's  face  while  he  read 
the  letter.  And  such  a  transformation  !  Every 
wrinkle  'peared  to  leave  his  face  at  once  and 
the  old-time  frown  faded  from  his  forehead  in 
less  than  ten  minutes. 

"  Doc  answered  the  letter,  of  course,  and 
then  he  rode  200  miles  to  mail  it  and  git  killed, 
and  now  this  is  the  end  of  it  all." 

Without  any  explanation  one  of  the  men 
opened  another  bottle  and  as  silently  passed  it 
to  the  leader,  who,  in  turn,  passed  it  to  me. 

I  noticed  that  this  man,  who  always  received 
the  bottle  first,  always  drank  last,  and,  I  thought, 
most. 

At  that  moment,  Jeronimo,  the  Mexican, 
having  come  over  to  say  that  my  breakfast, 
which  consisted  of  jerked  beef,  jerked  bread, 
and  water,  was  now  ready,  I  was  about  to 
depart  when  the  leader,  whom  I  have  been 
quoting  so  extensively,  took  up  the  unfinished 


A    COWBOY'S  FUNERAL  113 

business  in  the  last  bottle  and  it  went  round 
again. 

"  Poor  Doc,"  he  began  again.  "  He  had 
no  more  to  do  with  the  killin'  of  that  duck  at 
Thompson's  Springs  than  he  had  to  do  with  the 
murder  of  Jesse  James;  but  I  suppose  that 
Injun  of  a  sheriff  had  to  git  some  one,  and 
he  got  the  innocentest  one  of  the  lot.  I  can't 
see,  for  the  life  of  me,  how  that  bullet  shied  off 
and  hit  —  " 

The  speaker  glanced  at  one  of  his  com 
panions,  who  at  that  moment  was  looking  at 
me  without  winking  an  eye.  I  dropped  my 
gaze,  not  daring  to  look  at  the  man,  who  I 
knew  had  said  something  he  would  like  to  take 
back;  but  as  I  did  so  I  could  feel  that  they 
were  all  looking  at  me,  and  my  face  fairly 
burned  under  their  scorching  gaze.  When  the 
leader  sprang  to  his  feet  I  ventured  to  raise  my 
eyes  to  his,  but  I  almost  regretted  it  the  next 
moment,  for  his  face  was  white  with  rage. 

"  See  here,  pardner,"  he  began,  "  you  talk 
too  d — n  much." 

"I    have  been   listening,"   said    I,    "to    the 
story  you  have  been  good  enough  to  tell  me." 
8 


114  FRONTIER   STORIES 

"  Better  say  drunk  enough  to  tell  you,"  said 
one  of  the  gang. 

"  Wai,  then,  you  listen  too  d — n  much." 
This  from  the  man  who  had  been  doing  all 
the  talking,  and  his  voice  was  so  harsh  and 
awful  that  I  fairly  shook  in  my  laced  boots. 
"  This  was  no  funeral  of  yourn,  and  I  don't 
recollect  sendin'  out  any  invites." 

I  apologized  and  said  I  would  go  away,  but 
the  leader  said,  "  Not  yit."  Then  stepping  up 
in  front  of  me  he  said  very  distinctly  and  very 
slowly :  — 

"  You  don't  look  like  no  cowboy ;  you  don't 
look  like  no  prospector,  and  you  ain't  got  sand 
'nough  to  steal  a  hoss.  Now  will  you  be  kind 
'nough  to  tell  me  who  you  are,  and  what  the 
devil  you  're  doin'  on  the  desert  with  no  gun 
on  you?  " 

I  had  felt  all  along  that  if  I  could  get  the 
floor  I  could  talk  him  out  of  killing  me,  and  I 
said  very  softly,  very  respectfully,  that  I  was  an 
innocent,  inoffensive,  and  almost  inexperienced 
mining  expert,  just  hurrying  in  from  this  edge 
of  the  earth  to  the  shores  of  civilization,  and 
that  the  peace  and  quiet  of  a  Christian  woman, 


A    COWBOY'S  FUNERAL  115 

to  say  nothing  of  65,000,000  outsiders,  de 
pended  largely  upon  my  safe  return.  I  said 
a  great  many  other  things  equally  eloquent  and 
to  the  point,  which  I  cannot  just  now  recall. 
When  I  had  finished  they  said  they  believed  I 
was  "dead  straight,"  and  took  me  into  their 
confidence.  They  hinted,  however,  that  they 
had  friends  out  at  the  settlements  who  would 
"  keep  cases "  on  me  and  report  any  little 
funny  business  on  my  part,  in  case  I  got  back 
alive  and  decided  to  get  funny. 

The  leader  advised  me  to  be  more  guarded 
in  my  conversation  in  the  future,  and  I  said, 
"  Don't  mention  it,"  and  went  away  to  break 
fast  —  after  we  had  another  drink  from  the 
third  bottle. 

I  can't  say  whether  I  did  whistle  or  did  not 
whistle  going  back.  After  breakfast  we  all 
went  over  to  the  funeral,  and  they  asked  me 
to  say  something  at  the  grave.  I  introduced 
my  travelling  companion,  who  had  been  a 
farmer  twenty  years  ago  in  Vermont,  where 
every  man  is  his  own  preacher ;  and  he  put  up 
a  very  good  and  plausible  prayer. 

The  leader   stepped   over   to  where   I   was 


Il6  FRONTIER   STORIES 

standing  and  handed  me  a  piece  of  brown 
wrapping  paper,  on  which  some  verses  were 
written  in  a  dim,  Horace  Greeley  hand,  remark 
ing,  as  he  did  so,  that  he  reckoned  that  I  read 
writin'  all  right. 

"  Gist  found  that  in  Doc's  pocket,"  he  said. 
"  Queerest  duck  you  ever  see  —  writin'  his  own 
funeral  song  —  gist  'peared  to  know." 

While  we  were  thus  engaged  the  cowboys 
spread  a  new  Navajo  blanket  out  on  the  sand, 
placed  the  dead  body  in  the  middle  of  it,  and 
folded  the  edges  over  so  as  to  hide  the  face 
and  feet.  A  saddle  rope  was  used  to  lower  the 
body  into  the  shallow  grave,  round  which  we 
stood  with  bare  heads,  our  broad  white  hats 
tossed  about  on  the  sand.  The  leader  of  the 
gang  led  the  singing,  and  the  rest  pushed  in  the 
chorus.  The  air  applied  was  plaintive  and 
pleading,  —  a  sort  of  mixture  of  negro  minstrel 
and  the  old  time  Methodist  revival  song,  and 
in  spite  of  the  pay-streak  of  pathos  which  the 
reader  will  doubtless  detect  in  the  word-work, 
there  were  moments  when  I  could  hardly  help 
laughing.  I  can't  remember  the  verses,  but 
this  is  the  chorus  :  — 


A    COWBOY'S  FUNERAL  II  7 

"  Play  the  fife  slowly, 

And  beat  the  drum  lowly  ; 
Play  the  dead  march  as  I  'm  carried  along. 

Make  a  grave  in  the  desert 

And  pull  the  sand  o'er  me, 
I  'm  only  a  cowboy  —  I  know  I  've  done  wrong." 


HALF-BREEDS. 

TWENTY- FIVE  men  and  five  women  were 
living  at  Douglas  Lake,  B.  C.  Some  had 
ferried  it  round  the  Horn  and  up  the  selvage  of 
the  Pacific.  Others  had  hauled  themselves 
across  the  country  behind  a  bull  team.  They 
were  cattle  men,  sheep  men  and  farmers. 
They  were  all  working  hard  to  build  up  a  home 
in  a  promising  country.  It  was  a  democratic 
community.  The  village  blacksmith  was  mayor 
of  the  town. 

A  Frenchman,  who  appears  to  have  had 
money,  had  gone  in  ahead  of  the  Canadian 
colony,  roped  a  squaw,  and  reared  a  family. 
After  firewater,  French  blood  is  the  worst  thing 
that  can  be  mixed  up  with  Indians.  So  the 
Canadian  said,  and  I  believe  history  will  bear 
him  out.  Between  the  Frenchman  and  the 
squaw  four  boys  were  born,  and  they  appear 
to  have  been  bad  boys  from  the  beginning. 
When  the  youngest  was  only  14  they  stole  a 


122  FRONTIER   STORIES 

saddle  from  one  of  the  cowboys,  and  they  might 
as  well  have  taken  a  herd  of  cattle,  for  that 
would  not  make  a  cowboy  more  angry. 

A  warrant  was  issued  for  the  arrest  of  the 
four  boys,  two  other  half-breeds,  and  a  squaw, 
and  the  gang  began  to  hide  out.  They  evi 
dently  concluded  that  they  ought  to  do 
something  desperate,  for,  with  no  apparent 
provocation,  they  killed  an  inoffensive  shepherd 
and  put  themselves  on  the  defensive.  The  con 
stable  at  Douglas  Lake,  who  had  just  brought  a 
young  wife  to  this  wild  country,  went  after  the 
murderers  of  the  shepherd,  and  when  he  had 
found  them  showed  more  sand  than  sense  by  at 
tempting,  single-handed  and  alone,  to  stand  the 
seven  up.  Of  course,  they  killed  the  constable, 
a  brave,  indiscreet,  but  useful  citizen. 

Now  the  whole  community  was  up  in  arms 
and  after  the  outlaws.  It  is  related  of  the  real 
Indians  that  they  took  their  guns  and  went  out 
to  help  the  people  to  punish  the  murderers. 
They  had  profited  by  the  presence  of  the  pale- 
faced  people,  for  they  had  given  the  Indians 
work,  but  they  had  no  use  for  the  half-breeds. 
The  desperadoes  started  to  leave  the  country. 


HALF-BREEDS  123 


They  called  upon  one  of  the  farmers,  bound 
him  fast  in  his  chair,  and  then  helped  themselves 
to  whatever  they  wanted,  including  horses.  In 
front  of  the  door  they  flourished  their  firearms 
and  said,  "  These  things  "  (their  pistols)  "  will 
put  all  the  pale-faces  at  the  left  hand  of  Christ." 
The  leader,  one  of  the  sons  of  the  Frenchman, 
said  that  and  then  they  galloped  away. 

But  the  people  of  Douglas  Lake,  and  their 
Indian  allies,  galloped  after  them.  The  outlaws 
camped  that  night  in  an  old  cabin,  and  in  the 
morning  woke  to  find  the  place  surrounded  by 
desperate  men  —  white  and  red.  Occasionally 
a  head  would  appear  at  the  open  window  and  in 
stantly  a  bullet  would  peck  at  the  chinking.  If 
one  of  the  besiegers  showed  himself  carelessly, 
the  outlaws  would  take  a  shot  at  him  to  show 
that  they  were  armed. 

Nobody  cared  to  interview  the  inhabitants  of 
the  cabin,  and  the  people  determined  to  starve 
the  criminals  out.  A  leader  or  commander  was 
elected,  and  men  were  detailed  to  guard  the 
cabin  day  and  night.  Uncomplainingly  now, 
the  red  men  of  the  community  stood  watch 
with  the  whites.  On  the  third  day  an  Indian 


124  FRONTIER   STORIES 

left  the  besiegers  and  walked  deliberately,  un 
armed,  up  to  the  cabin.  He  did  not  enter,  but 
called  upon  the  gang  to  surrender.  The  half- 
breeds  seemed  much  surprised  that  the  Indians 
should  help  to  hunt  them  out.  They  doubtless 
reasoned  that  if  a  half-breed  could  hold  so 
much  cussedness  a  whole  Indian  ought  to  be 
beyond  redemption. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  leader.  "  Here  's  my  old 
friend  Jim,  come  with  the  rest  to  help  hang 
me."  But  Jim  was  not  so  good  a  friend  as  the 
half-breeds  had  thought  him.  For  and  in  con 
sideration  of  $100  to  him  in  hand  paid,  this 
same  Jim  had  revealed  to  the  people  of  Douglas 
Lake  the  plans  of  the  half-breeds,  which  in 
cluded  the  killing  off  of  the  entire  white  pop 
ulation.  This  conclusion  had  been  reached 
immediately  after  the  killing  of  the  shepherd. 

It  was  not  until  the  afternoon  of  the  sixth 
day  that  the  gang  came  out,  emptied  their 
revolvers,  tossed  them  in  a  heap  upon  the 
ground,  and  held  up  their  hands.  Hunger  and 
thirst  had  made  even  death  preferable  to  such 
torture,  and  so  the  gang  surrendered.  Here 
was  material  and  opportunity  for  an  interesting 


HA  LF-BREEDS  125 


lynching.  The  provocation  had  been  great, 
but,  according  to  our  informant,  such  a  thing 
was  not  even  suggested.  Having  fed  and  wa 
tered  the  gang,  a  deputation  of  citizens  —  the 
constable  having  been  killed  —  started  across 
the  country,  50  miles,  to  New  Westminster, 
where  a  whole  week  was  wasted  in  the  trial 
of  the  murderers.  Two  of  the  four  brothers 
and  another  half-breed  were  hanged.  The 
other  three,  being  younger,  were  imprisoned, 
and  the  squaw  set  free.  Having  spent  a  consid 
erable  part  of  his  fortune  in  a  bootless  effort  to 
save  the  necks  of  his  more  or  less  unlawful 
children,  the  old  Frenchman  went  back  to 
France  to  try  to  forget  it. 

And  that 's  the  way  the  Canadians  will  do 
in  the  Klondike.  The  dashing  desperado  will 
not  have  the  honor  of  being  shot.  Even  the 
famous  reformer,  Riel,  was  hanged  like  a  horse 
thief  at  the  end  of  a  rope.  Voila. 


THE   SEDUCTIVE   SIX-SHOOTER. 

J3UTCHERS  are  not  allowed  to  serve  on  a 
JJ  coroner's  jury,  I  believe,  in  some  States, 
presumably  because  the  constant  shedding  of 
blood  hardens  the  human  heart.  Along  the 
same  line  of  reasoning  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say  that  with  the  constant  handling  of  fire 
arms  comes  a  desire  to  use  them  on  something 
or  somebody.  With  much  use  one  becomes 
expert  with  the  six-shooter,  and  when  in 
trouble,  or  in  search  of  it,  such  an  one  reaches 
instinctively  for  his  firearms,  without  taking 
thought  of  the  consequences.  Instinctively  a 
man  defends  himself  with  that  which  is  most 
convenient.  A  negro  barber  turns  to  his  razor, 
a  cowboy  to  his  cartridge  belt,  a  soldier  to  his 
sword,  while  the  English  athlete  puts  up  his 
hands. 

Another  temptation   to  use  the  gun   comes 
with  the  feeling  of  security  that  pervades  the 
bosom  of  the  expert.     He  is  reasonably  sure 
9 


130  FRONTIER  STORIES 

of  success  in  a  hand-to-hand  fight  with  a 
novice. 

Having  "killed  his  man,"  the  killer  begins 
to  swagger,  and  at  the  first  opportunity  hastens 
to  repeat  the  performance.  Like  the  prize 
fighter  who  has  won  the  belt,  he  must  keep 
on  fighting  or  lose  his  reputation,  and  finally 
he  actually  goes  looking  for  trouble. 

Killing  becomes  a  disease.  Not  for  the 
sake  of  killing  merely  does  he  do  this,  but 
because  he  loves  the  excitement  of  fighting. 
I  asked  Bob  Ford,  who  had  clasped  left  hands 
with  a  Colorado  cowboy,  emptied  his  six- 
shooter  into  the  man,  and  taken  the  contents 
of  the  cowboy's  gun  into  his  system,  if  there 
was  not  a  suffocating  dread  of  being  torn  by 
the  bullet. 

"Well,  yes  —  at  first,"  said  he;  "but  the 
moment  the  shooting  begins  you  become  drunk 
vfith  the  excitement  of  the  fight  and  the  smell 
of  powder,  and  all  thought  of  danger  blows 
by." 

Now,  this  fellow  had  been  a  quiet,  modest 
youth  up  to  the  evil  hour  in  which  he  was 
tempted  to  take  the  life  of  Jesse  James,  his 


THE   SEDUCTIVE  SIX-SHOOTER  131 

friend  and  benefactor.  James  had  taught  Ford 
the  use  of  the  fascinating  "  forty- five,"  with 
which  the  pupil  slew  the  teacher.  That  was 
the  beginning  of  Ford's  end.  He  gradually 
grew  in  "  cussedness "  until  he  had  acquired 
the  unenviable  reputation  of  being  a  bad  man, 
and  was,  in  the  end,  himself  ignominiously 
murdered. 

Another  instance  in  which  the  seductive  six- 
shooter  led  a  man  astray  is  the  case  of  Frank 
Rand  of  Illinois.  I  say  of  Illinois  because  it 
was  in  that  State,  near  the  little  town  of  Alti- 
mont,  that  he  wandered,  an  inoffensive  tramp, 
to  a  farmer's  house  one  morning  in  quest  of 
food.  The  farmer  lived  in  a  little  shack  on  the 
railroad,  on  a  bit  of  ground  alone.  He  was  n't 
polite  to  the  tramp,  and  the  tramp  resented 
the  insult.  The  farmer  so  forgot  himself  as  to 
kick  the  tramp,  and  the  tramp  pulled  his  gun 
and  killed  the  farmer.  A  gang  of  section  men 
saw  the  smoke,  heard  the  shot,  and  saw  the 
man  fall.  Lifting  the  car  to  the  track  they 
pumped  into  Altimont  and  gave  alarm. 

The  tramp  saw  the  car  go  and  guessed  the 
cause  of  it.  He  glanced  at  his  six-shooter  and 


132  FRONTIER  STORIES 

felt  a  certain  security.  A  "gentleman  of  the 
road  "  testified  afterward  that  he  had  tramped 
with  Rand  for  a  few  weeks  and  found  him  a 
most  agreeable  companion,  quiet  and  inoffen 
sive.  He  was  reasonably  honest,  the  man 
said.  The  only  thing  he  had  known  Rand  to 
steal  was  food  and  cartridges.  If  he  could  not 
steal  ammunition  for  his  gun  he  would  beg 
money,  go  hungry,  and  buy  it.  As  often  as 
they  stopped  to  rest  Rand  took  his  six-shooter 
to  pieces,  cleaned  it  and  put  it  together  again. 
He  was  a  wonderful  shot.  He  could  kill  a 
farmer's  bull-dog  as  far  as  he  could  see  him. 
He  would  shoot  the  head  from  a  tame  pigeon 
at  the  top  of  a  country  church,  and  kill  brown 
birds  on  the  tops  of  telegraph  poles.  He 
never  missed  whatever  he  aimed  at. 

So  now,  when  he  saw  men  hurrying  out  from 
the  little  town,  afoot,  on  horseback,  and  in  top 
buggies,  he  made  no  doubt  they  were  after 
him.  He  kicked  out  the  empty  shell,  and 
put  in  a  fresh  cartridge.  Presently  a  horse 
leaped  the  low  hedge,  and  came  straight  for 
the  tramp,  who  was  heading  for  some  willows 
down  by  a  little  stream.  The  man  on  the 


THE    SEDUCTIVE   SIX-SHOOTER  133 

horse  called  to  the  man  who  was  running 
across  the  stubble  to  stop.  For  answer,  Rand 
turned  slightly,  but  without  slacking  his  pace, 
and  aimed  at  the  horseman.  There  was  a  puff 
of  smoke  from  the  tramp's  pistol,  the  horse 
plunged  high,  and  then  fell  dead  in  the  field, 
shot  square  between  the  eyes.  The  rider  got 
to  his  feet,  glanced  at  his  poor  dead  horse, 
and  ran  after  the  flying  tramp.  Others  came 
up,  saw  the  wound  in  the  horse's  head,  and 
considered  it  only  a  chance  shot.  No  one 
thought  for  a  moment  that  Rand  had  aimed 
it  so.  In  a  little  while  they  chased  the  fugi 
tive  out  of  the  willows  and  across  an  open 
field.  A  man  with  a  swift  horse  rode  round 
the  field,  dismounted,  and  stood  upon  a  little 
culvert  over  which  the  tramp  must  pass. 
Rand,  running  straight  for  the  man,  who  held 
the  bridge  and  a  double-barreled  shotgun, 
called  to  him  and  signalled  to  him  with  his 
six-shooter.  But  the  man  held  his  place. 
"Stand  aside!"  he  shouted.  The  man  delib 
erately  raised  his  shotgun.  Without  stopping, 
Rand  cut  loose  at  the  man.  He  threw  up  his 
hands,  waved  his  gun  above  his  head,  and 


134  FRONTIER   STORIES 

then,  as  Rand  went  by,  toppled  over  into  the 
ditch.  Still  running,  the  outlaw  heard  a  rifle 
crack  close  behind  him,  and  the  whine  of  a 
bullet  that  whistled  by.  Glancing  back,  he 
saw  a  man  standing  on  the  line  fence,  aiming 
another  shot  at  him.  Again  the  toy  gun 
cracked,  and  the  man,  who  had  his  feet  in 
the  top  crack  of  the  fence,  pitched  forward 
into  the  field. 

Now,  when  the  pursuing  party  came  up  and 
saw  the  two  men  hit  as  the  horse  had  been 
hit,  plump  between  the  eyes,  their  hearts  stood 
still.  What  devil  was  this,  at  the  crook  of 
whose  finger  men  dropped  dead?  It  is  all 
very  well  to  go  in  pursuit  of  an  outlaw,  a  mur 
derer,  but  few  men  care  to  face  a  fiend  of  this 
sort,  even  to  avenge  the  death  of  a  neighbor, 
or  bring  the  guilty  to  book.  Life  is  sweet. 
The  pursuing  party  parleyed,  and  Rand  ran 
away. 

A  mile  down  the  road  he  saw  a  boy  riding  a 
good  horse.  He  stopped  the  boy  and  told  him 
hurriedly  that  a  man  had  been  shot  down  the 
road  and  that  he  was  running  for  a  doctor. 
To  hasten  matters  he  borrowed  the  boy's  horse 


THE   SEDUCTIVE   SIX-SHOOTER  135 

and  sent  the  boy  on  to  tell  the  people  who 
were  waiting  there  about  it. 

Now,  when  they  had  heard  what  the  boy  had 
to  say  they  knew  that  Rand  had  five  miles  the 
start  of  them,  that  he  could  change  horses  as 
often  as  he  cared  to,  and  so  they  gave  up  the 
chase.  I  dare  say  many  of  them  were  glad  of 
the  excuse. 

As  hard  luck,  or  a  dislike  for  honest  toil,  had 
made  a  tramp,  so  now  did  the  seductive  six- 
shooter  make  a  murderer  and  an  outlaw. 
There  was  nothing  for  him  now  but  to  fight 
it  out  to  the  end.  Our  desperado  made  his 
way  to  St.  Louis,  where  he  met  the  old  pal 
with  whom  he  had  tramped  through  Illinois. 
To  his  comrade  he  said  nothing  of  the  blood 
that  was  on  his  hands.  One  day  when  the 
two  men  were  in  a  pawnshop,  a  couple  of 
officers  in  citizens'  clothes  entered  the  place. 
One  of  the  men,  a  powerful  young  man, 
who  had  spotted  Rand,  sprang  upon  the  des 
perado  and  bore  him  to  the  floor.  Rand  was 
short,  but  powerfully  built,  and  he  gave  the 
officer  a  hard  run.  At  last  he  lay  quiet  for 
a  moment,  then  turning  he  looked  toward  the 


136  FRONTIER   STORIES 

other  officer,  who  was  struggling  with  the 
harmless  but  thoroughly  frightened  tramp,  and 
called  excitedly  to  the  man  who  was  holding 
him.  "  Look  out  there  !  "  he  shouted.  "  Help 
your  partner  ! " 

The  officer,  being  off  his  guard,  and  having 
already  removed  Rand's  murderous  six-shooter, 
turned  to  see  how  his  brother  officer  was  get 
ting  on.  Quick  as  a  flash  Rand  pulled  a  der 
ringer  from  his  vest  pocket  and  drilled  a  big 
hole  through  one  of  the  bravest  and  most 
popular  officers  on  the  St.  Louis  force. 

The  shot,  however,  did  not  prove  instantly 
fatal,  and  with  the  help  that  came  to  him 
the  wounded  man  was  able  to  disarm  the 
desperado. 

After  suffering  indescribable  agony  for  a  few 
days,  the  officer  died. 

I  forget  what  they  did  with  Rand,  but  if  you 
ask  any  man  who  lived  in  St.  Louis  a  quarter  of 
a  century  ago,  he  can  tell  you. 

The  purpose  of  this  story  is  to  point  a  moral. 
Boy,  whoever  you  may  be,  wherever  you  roam, 
fight  shy  of  the  seductive  six-shooter. 


Brakeman  anti 


THE  BRAKEMAN  AND  THE  SQUAW. 

HERE  is  a  story  of  the  building  of  a  branch 
line    on    a    mountain    railroad.      Con 
ductor    McGuire,    being   a    new    man,   was    in 
charge  of  the  construction  train,  with  engineer 
VVescott  in  charge  of  the  engine. 

N.  C.  Creede,  afterward  famous  as  the 
founder  of  Creede  camp,  had  located  the 
Madonna  mine  at  Monarch  camp,  and  created 
a  necessity  for  the  branch  road.  They  had 
rushed  the  work,  but  the  first  snow  caught  them 
still  three  miles  from  the  booming  silver  camp. 
A  wandering  band  of  Indians,  hearing  of  the 
excitement,  and  not  understanding  it,  had 
strayed  into  the  Monarch  country,  and  down 
the  gulch  as  far  as  Maysville,  then  a  wild  and 
thriving  village  at  the  edge  of  the  Arkansas 
valley.  One  day,  when  it  was  storming,  an  old 
squaw  came  to  McGuire,  and  wanted  a  ride 
up  the  hill.  It  was  a  cruel  day,  and  the  kind- 


140  FRONTIER   STORIES 

hearted  conductor  carried  the  Indian  to  the 
end  of  the  track. 

It  was  a  month  later  when  one  of  McGuire's 
brake  men,  named  Bo  wen,  who  had  been  hunt 
ing  in  the  hills,  rushed  into  the  caboose  with 
the  startling  announcement  that  his  partner,  the 
head  brakeman,  had  been  captured  by  the 
Indians. 

"  Look  here,  Jack,"  said  McGuire,  "  are  you 
lying?  " 

"  Honest  Injun  !  "  said  Jack  ;  "  if  there  's  one 
there  's  a  million  ;  and  they  Ve  got  Mickey  tied 
to  a  stake.  We  had  become  separated.  I  was 
standing  on  a  precipice,  looking  for  Mickey, 
when  I  saw  the  Indians  surround  him." 

"  Now,  Jack  Bowen  had  lied  so  luminously 
and  so  frequently  to  the  conductor  that  the 
latter  was  slow  to  believe  this  wild  tale ;  but 
finally  he  was  persuaded  that  it  was  true.  Re 
turning  to  Maysville  with  the  engine,  he  gave 
the  alarm,  and  the  sheriff  of  Chaffee  County 
made  up  a  posse  and  set  out  in  search  of  the 
brakeman. 

The  sun  was  going  down  behind  the  range 
when  the  engine  and  the  caboose  full  of  amateur 


THE  BRA KEMA N  AND    THE   SQUAW       141 

Indian  fighters  returned  to  the  end  of  the 
track.  Taking  Bowen  as  guide,  the  sheriff 
scoured  the  hills,  but  found  no  trace  of  the 
missing  man.  The  storm  increased  with  the 
darkness,  and  the  sheriff's  posse  was  forced  to 
return  to  camp.  It  were  useless  to  put  out 
again  in  the  face  of  such  a  storm,  and  the 
sheriff  was  about  to  return  to  Maysville,  when 
the  old  squaw  whom  McGuire  had  helped  up 
the  hill  put  her  head  in  at  the  door  of  the 
way  car  and  signalled  McGuire  to  come  out. 
She  could  scarcely  speak  a  word  of  English,  but, 
pulling  at  the  conductor's  sleeve,  she  started 
as  though  she  would  lead  him  into  the  hills. 
As  often  as  McGuire  would  stop,  the  squaw 
would  stop.  He  tried  to  persuade  her  into  the 
car,  but  she  would  not.  Now  the  sheriff  came 
out,  and  when  he  saw  the  signals  of  the  squaw 
he  guessed  that  she  would  lead  them  to  the 
captive ;  and  when  McGuire  had  told  him  how 
he  had  helped  this  Indian  on  her  way  up  the 
hill  in  a  storm,  he  knew  that  the  Indian  was 
trying  to  repay  the  conductor  for .  his  kindness. 
The  unfortunate  brakeman,  McGuire  explained, 
had  given  the  Indian  tobacco  and  whiskey; 


142  FRONTIER  STORIES 

therefore   she  would  not   see  him  die  without 
making  an  effort  to  save  him. 

The  sheriff  called  his  deputies,  and  taking  a 
half-dozen  volunteers  from  Garfield  camp,  made 
sign  to  the  Indian  and  followed  her  away  into 
the  wilderness  of  snow-hung  pine  and  cedar. 
Now  and  then  the  squaw  would  pause  to  get 
her  bearings.  The  snow  had  ceased  falling 
and  the  stars  were  out.  After  tramping  for  an 
hour  or  more,  the  Indian  signed  to  the  sheriff 
to  stay,  and  then  disappeared  into  a  cedar 
grove.  Presently  she  returned  and  led  them 
to  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  Just  below  them, 
in  a  little  basin,  they  could  see  a  pine  fire 
burning  and  Indians  dancing  in  the  light  of  it. 
Sitting  upon  the  snow  hard  by,  they  saw  the 
brakeman  with  his  fettered  hands  over  his 
knees  and  his  head  bent  forward  like  a  man 
nodding  in  a  pew.  The  sheriff  asked  the  Indian 
to  lead  them  on,  and  she  made  sign  that  they 
must  go  far  around,  for  the  bluff  was  steep,  and 
they  followed  her.  They  had  been  a  half-hour 
out  of  sight  of  the  Indian  camp,  but  always 
going  down  and  down,  so  they  knew  now  they 
must  be  near.  When  they  had  gone  within 


THE   BRAKE  MAN  AND    THE  S 'QUA  IV       143 

one  hundred  yards  of  the  Indians,  who  had  not 
heard  them  walking  upon  the  muffled  earth, 
they  stopped  to  discuss  the  work  that  was 
before  them.  The  Indian,  putting  her  hand 
on  the  sheriff's  rifle,  pushed  it  to  the  ground 
and  shook  her  head,  meaning  that  she  would 
not  have  them  kill  the  Indians,  whom  they 
outnumbered  two  to  one.  The  sheriff  was  at 
a  loss  to  understand  how  he  was  to  capture 
this  band  without  firing,  for  he  had  no  doubt 
the  Indians  would  fire  upon  him  the  moment 
they  caught  sight  of  him.  But  the  squaw  was 
equal  to  the  emergency.  She  began  to  form 
the  men  in  two  lines.  Taking  hold  of  their 
coats  she  would  place  a  man  on  the  right  flank 
and  another  on  the  left,  until  she  had  divided 
the  sheriff's  posse.  She  then  placed  the 
sheriff  at  the  head  of  one  column  and  the  con 
ductor,  whom  she  regarded  as  a  sort  of  captain, 
at  the  other,  and  then  made  sign  to  them  to 
go  forward,  one  half  to  the  right  and  the  other 
to  the  left.  Then  she  made  it  plain  to  them 
that  she  would  have  them  surround  the  Indians. 
She  brought  her  two  bony  hands  together  slowly, 
with  the  fingers  spread  out,  and  when  they  were 


144  FRONTIER   STORIES 

quite  together  she  closed  her  fists.  So  the 
sheriff  made  out  she  would  have  them  steal 
upon  the  Indians  and  disarm  them  or  awe 
them  into  surrendering  at  the  muzzles  of  their 
guns,  and  he  gave  instructions  to  the  men 
accordingly.  Of  course  each  individual  must 
now  use  his  judgment,  and  so  the  little  band 
surrounded  the  Indians.  In  the  meantime  the 
squaw  stole  into  the  camp  and  squatted  near 
the  fire.  As  the  sheriff's  men  closed  in  upon 
the  Indians  the  squaw  leaped  to  her  feet  and 
put  out  a  hand  as  a  signal  for  the  band  to  be 
still.  The  Indians  listened,  but  the  sheriff's 
men,  seeing  it  all,  stood  still  in  the  snow.  Now 
the  squaw  spoke  to  the  Indians,  saying  that  she 
had  seen  a  great  many  soldiers  coming  down 
the*  hill  that  evening  and  giving  it  as  her  opinion 
that  the  camp  would  be  surrounded  and  that 
if  the  Indians  resisted  they  would  all  be  killed. 
When  she  had  succeeded  in  persuading  them 
that  it  would  be  best  to  surrender  in  case  the 
soldiers  should  come,  she  sat  down  again.  This, 
the  sheriff  concluded,  was  a  signal  for  the  men 
to  advance,  and  the  posse  moved  forward. 
When  they  were  quite  near,  the  Indians  were 


THE  BRAKE  MAN  AND    THE   SQUAW        145 

made  aware  of  their  presence  by  the  snapping 
of  a  dry  cedar-bough,  and  the  sheriff,  knowing 
that  delay  would  be  dangerous,  shouted  to  his 
posse  to  advance.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice 
the  Indians  sprang  for  their  rifles,  but  when 
they  had  got  them  and  got  to  their  feet  again 
the  sheriff's  posse,  coming  out  of  the  woods 
from  every  direction,  held  the  glittering  steel 
barrels  of  their  rifles  in  the  glare  of  the  camp- 
fire,  and  the  Indians  laid  down  their  arms. 

The  brakeman,  who  had  concluded  that  he 
was  to  be  butchered  or  roasted,  was  almost 
wild  with  joy.  When  asked  by  the  sheriff  why 
they  held  the  brakeman,  the  leader  said  the 
white  man  was  lost ;  they  found  him,  and  were 
only  waiting  for  daylight,  when  they  would  take 
him  back  to  his  people  and  get  "  heap  rum." 
The  sheriff  pointed  to  the  white  man's  fettered 
hands  and  asked  the  Indian  to  explain ;  and  the 
Indian  said  that  the  man  was  "  heap  mad,"  and 
they  were  afraid  that  if  they  left  his  hands  loose 
he  would  take  their  guns  and  kill  them  while 
they  slept,  and  if  they  left  his  feet  unfettered 
he  would  wander  away  in  the  storm  and  be 
lost. 

10 


146  FRONTIER   STORIES 

After  consulting  the  conductor  and  the  more 
important  members  of  the  posse,  the  sheriff 
concluded,  as  it  was  manifest  that  the  Indians 
were  only  holding  the  brakeman  for  ransom, 
that  he  would  allow  them  to  go  their  way,  after 
exacting  a  promise  that  they  would  return  at 
once  to  their  reservation  on  the  other  side  of 
the  range. 


Ibofifeaninni 


HOSKANINNI. 

IT  was  along  in  the  seventies  that  Cass  Kite,  a 
fearless  adventurer,  drifted  into  the  Navajo 
reservation.  The  prospector's  attention  was 
attracted  by  the  splendid  ornaments  worn  by 
the  Indians,  most  of  them  hammered  from 
pure  horn  silver.  Hite  began  to  cultivate  the 
acquaintance  of  Hoskaninni,  who  was  not  long 
in  office,  having  murdered  his  uncle,  a  thor 
oughly  bad  Indian,  to  get  the  position  of  chief 
of  the  Western  tribe.  He  gathered  from  the 
chief  that  the  Indians  owned  a  mine  called  the 
"  Peso-la-ki,"  where  native  silver  grew  on  every 
shelf. 

He  learned,  also,  that  the  Indians  had  quarried 
all  the  silver  that  was  in  sight,  and  that  the 
mine  could  be  bought. 

In  time  an  agreement  was  reached.  Hos 
kaninni  was  to  show  the  Peso-la-ki  mine  to  the 
Hosteen  Peso-la-ki  (white  silver  hunter)  for 
2000  pesos  —  2000  pieces  of  silver. 


150  FRONTIER   STORIES 

Hoskanirmi  had  paid  so  much  attention  to 
the  white  man  that  the  Indians  began  to  guess 
that  something  was  up,  and  when  a  council 
was  called  for  the  purpose  of  discussing  the 
proposed  sale  of  the  silver  mine,  there  was 
already  a  strong  silver  sentiment  antagonistic  to 
the  chief. 

The  council  was  called  to  meet  at  Hoska- 
ninni's  hogan,  and  on  the  day  designated  the 
braves  came  sullenly  and  squatted  upon  the 
ground. 

The  head  Indian,  in  a  viva  voce  message  to 
the  house,  stated  the  object  of  the  meeting, 
and  followed  with  a  very  plausible  plea  for  the 
sale  of  the  Peso-la-ki  to  the  white  man.  In 
addition  to  the  2000  pesos,  they  would  have 
the  advantage  of  learning  from  their  pale  friend 
how  to  mine ;  they  could  find  other  valuable 
mines  and  become  rich  and  respectable. 
While  he  anticipated  no  danger  from  this 
arrangement,  it  was  his  intention,  nevertheless, 
to  appoint  a  sub-chief  to  assist  him  in  protect 
ing  his  tribe,  and  a  second  assistant,  who  would 
look  after  the  mine  to  see  that  the  white  man 
took  no  more  land  than  he  was  entitled  to. 


HOSKANINN  151 


Each  of  these  officers  would  be  assisted  by  six 
braves  selected  by  the  head  chief.  All  these 
men  would  be  mounted  on  Mormon  horses, 
known  as  Mountain  meadow  stock,  and  armed 
with  the  best  rifles  that  money  could  buy. 

A  few  ambitious  braves,  dazzled  by  the  grand 
parade  of  horses  and  rifles,  fell  into  the  trap  of 
the  wily  chief,  and  signified  their  willingness  to 
serve. 

Hoskaninni  was  something  of  a  fighter,  and 
made,  at  all  times,  a  beautiful  bluff;  and  when 
Nevada  Bill,  a  half-breed,  stood  up  to  oppose 
the  sale  of  the  mine,  the  chief  whipped  out  his 
hatchet,  and  was  about  to  cut  the  warrior  off  at 
the  hip  pockets,  when  half  a  dozen  braves 
sprang  between  them. 

Hite  at  this  point  made  a  medicine  talk,  in 
which  he  counselled  peace;  the  chief  talked 
more  mildly  now,  but  they  would  not  have  it. 

Another  brave  took  the  floor  and  made  a 
manly  plea  for  his  people. 

His  argument  was  to  the  effect  that  while 
Hoskaninni  had  been  chosen  chief  partly  be 
cause  he  had  dared  to  remove  a  man  much 
meaner,  if  possible,  than  himself,  he  had 


152  FRONTIER   STORIES 

pledged  himself  to  protect  the  people  and 
their  property.  He  told,  almost  in  tears,  how 
their  grandfathers  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of 
the  Spaniards  on  the  big  water.  "  The  smooth 
trail  travelled  by  Hoskaninni,"  said  he,  "our 
fathers  blazed  with  bleeding  feet.  They  were 
slaves ;  they  fought  and  gave  us  freedom,  and 
I,  for  one,  will  not  submit  silently  to  be  bound 
and  branded  like  a  maverick. 

"  Hardly  has  the  paint  dried  up  on  the 
splendid  plumage  of  our  new  chief,  when  we 
find  him  betraying  his  people  to  the  pale-face. 
It  is  an  empty  honor  to  be  called  in  council  if 
the  words  are  to  be  put  into  our  mouths  — 
what  we  shall  say.  Wuh  !  I  am  ashamed  to  be 
called  a  red  man;"  and  the  outraged  Indian 
strode  from  the  tent. 

Hoskaninni  made  another  play  with  his 
tomahawk  when  the  back  of  the  speaker  was 
turned,  but  a  dozen  hands  were  lifted  against 
him  and  the  angry  chief  backed  down. 

Another  noble  red  man  took  the  floor,  and 
as  he  proceeded  the  excitement  rose  to  fever 
heat. 

"  When  a  chief  was  chosen,"  he  began,  "  I 


HOSKANINNI  153 


was  in  favor  of  a  wiser  and  a  better  brave  — 
one  who  had  been  tried  for  twenty  dozen 
moons  and  who  was  always  to  the  front  with 
flying  plumes  when  his  people  needed  his  ser 
vice.  Brave  and  just,  fearless,  but  friendly  to 
other  tribes,  his  own  people  never  lost  their 
rightful  place  in  his  heart.  If  now  he  looked 
from  the  hills  of  the  happy  hunting-grounds 
his  wrath  would  break  the  locks  upon  his  lips 
and  his  brave  spirit  would  cry  out :  '  Begone, 
ye  gray  spiders,  who  seek  to  take  from  my 
people  that  which  was  given  them  by  the  Great 
Father.  Begone,  ye  squaws  !  Your  ears  are 
tickled  with  the  applause  of  strange  tribes,  but 
deaf  to  the  appeals  of  your  own  people.' 

"  So  would  he  say  —  so  would  he  rebuke 
the  coyotes  who  lick  the  feet  of  a  fat  master  for 
a  stout  cayuse  or  a  silver-mounted  saddle. 
Dogs  !  ye  make  me  tired."  And  another  war 
rior  went  out  into  the  sage  brush  and  the  night. 

Hite  looked  at  Hoskaninni,  and  Hoskaninni 
looked  at  Hite.  They  sat  in  silence  for  some 
time  ;  then  Hite  rose  up,  put  on  his  guns,  and 
said,  "  I  will  go." 

"  You  will  not,"  said  the  chief.     "  You  will 


154  FRONTIER   STORIES 

stay  to-night  with  me ;  they  will  not  molest 
you  while  you  are  my  guest." 

Till  late  at  night  the  old  chief  paced  the 
floor  with  heavy  arms  about  him,  fearful  that 
his  people  might  demand  the  white  man,  and 
determined  to  defend  him  even  to  the  extent 
of  risking  his  kingdom  and  his  life. 

At  the  dawn  Hite  was  awakened  by  the  old 
chief,  and  looking  out  between  the  blankets 
that  served  as  a  door  to  the  house,  they  saw 
three  hundred  ponies  tied  to  the  sage  brush 
about  the  camp. 

"  See,"  said  Hoskaninni,  "  their  backs  are 
bare ;  Navajos  go  to  war  with  no  saddles. 
My  people  will  fight  for  the  Peso-la-ki.  I  will 
show  you  the  mine,  as  I  have  promised,  then 
you  must  look  out  for  yourself,  for  we  shall 
surely  be  killed.  My  people  believe  that  if 
the  white  man  is  allowed  to  dig  in  our  country 
we  shall  be  made  slaves,  as  the  Utes  were 
enslaved  by  the  Spaniards  on  the  big  water." 

Hite  said  no,  he  would  not  purchase  Peso 
with  his  brother's  blood,  and  Hoskaninni  was 
willing  to  let  it  go  at  that  and  continue  to  reign 
over  the  Navajos. 


HOSKANINNI  155 


Hite  succeeded  in  leaving  the  land  of  Hos- 
kaninni  with  his  scalp,  but  the  friendship  of  the 
old  Indian  endured  until  the  day  he  died. 

Just  before  Hoskaninni's  death  Hite  had  the 
misfortune  to  kill  a  man  at  Green  River,  Utah, 
for  which  he  was  sentenced  to  a  short  term  in 
a  Salt  Lake  prison. 

During  Kite's  absence  from  his  cabin  on  the 
Colorado  River  his  old  friend  called  to  pay 
him  a  visit.  The  Navajo  explained  to  Kite's 
brother  that  he  was  growing  old  and  that  he 
wished  to  do  something  for  his  pale  friend, 
"  Hosteen-peso-la-ki,"  as  he  called  him,  before 
he  died,  and  with  that  end  in  view  he  had  brought 
a  fine  squaw  to  be  the  wife  of  the  white  man. 

Upon  learning  that  Hite  was  languishing  in 
prison,  all  because  he  had  shot  a  hole  in  a 
man's  heart  with  a  six-shooter  when  that  same 
man  was  shooting  at  him  with  a  rifle,  Hoska- 
ninni  grew  furious.  He  gave  a  good  illustration 
of  his  innocence  and  loyalty  when  he  demanded 
to  know  why  they  did  not  get  Hite  out  of  prison. 

"  But  we  can't,"  said  the  brother  of  the  con 
demned  man. 

"Have  you  tried?"  asked  the  Indian. 

"  No." 


156  FRONTIER   STORIES 

"Then  how  do  you  know  you  can't  do? 
Hoskaninni  will  try.  Maybe  so  git  kill,  but  he 
try,  all  same." 

It  required  a  great  deal  of  talk  to  persuade 
the  old  chief  to  return  to  his  reservation  instead 
of  moving  upon  the  government  prison  at  Salt 
Lake. 

The  fact  that  Kite  was  pardoned  after  serv 
ing  a  few  months  probably  never  came  to  the 
ears  of  Hoskaninni,  for  the  hand  of  death  had 
touched  him,  and  he  had  already  gone  to  his 
own  place. 

The  only  thing  this  chief  feared  was  water. 
He  invariably  stripped  naked  when  entering  a 
canoe  or  boat  to  cross  a  river,  and  when  seen 
thus  he  gave  one  the  belief  that  he  had  spent 
most  of  his  life  leaning  against  a  barbed-wire 
fence.  Upon  either  thigh  he  had  countless 
scars,  as  though  he  had  been  whipped  with  a 
flax  hackle.  They  were  wounds  made  by 
arrows  and  bullets  that  he  had  received  when 
riding  in  a  circle  round  the  enemy  with  his 
body  hanging  over  the  side  of  his  pony. 

In  1892,  when  in  the  reservation,  we  made  an 
effort  to  see  the  famous  warrior,  who  is  said  to 


HOSKA  NINNI  157 


have  been  the  only  chief  who  did  not  surrender 
to  the  United  States  Government  in  the  war  of 
1866.  A  Navajo  assured  us  that  he  would  take  us 
to  the  hogan  of  Hoskaninni  in  two  sleeps,  for 
which  he  demanded  ten  pesos.  We  made  him 
understand  that  we  had  learned  that  Hoska 
ninni  was  dead.  "  Si,"  said  the  Indian,  and 
taking  a  miner's  shovel  from  one  of  our  party, 
he  made  a  grave  about  two  inches  deep  in  the 
sand,  lay  down  in  it,  crossed  his  hands,  closed 
his  eyes,  and  said,  "  Si,  all  same  Hoskaninni  — 
mucho  sleepa  six  moon."  And  we  decided 
not  to  wake  him. 

Although  he  has  been  dead  but  a  little  while, 
the  Indians  have  a  very  pretty  story  of  his 
going  away.  They  assured  us  that  on  his 
deathbed  he  made  a  solemn  vow  to  guard  the 
trail  that  leads  from  the  province  of  the  pale 
face  to  the  land  of  the  Navajo.  It  is  in  the 
fullfilment  of  this  promise,  the  natives  say,  that 
the  ghost  of  Hoskaninni  gallops  nightly  down 
Tickaboo  canon,  — 

That  every  night,  at  midnight, 

As  the  winds  go  wailing  by, 
Rides  the  ghost  of  Hoskaninni 

'Gainst  the  Hosteen-Pes'-la-ki. 


TICKABOO. 

VERY  many  years  ago  the  Spaniards  lived 
on  the  Colorado  River  and  the  Navajos 
claim  that  their  fore-Indians  used  to  work  as 
slaves  in  the  once  famous  Josephine  mine  and 
that  their  grandmothers  rocked  the  cradles  of 
the  Spaniards  and  washed  gold  by  the  banks  of 
the  big  water.  A  Spaniard  wrote  to  a  friend  in 
Spain  that  there  was  wealth  enough  in  the 
Josephine  to  make  the  Catholic  world  indepen 
dently  rich.  A  smart  old  chief  enlisted  the 
services  of  a  number  of  tribes  and  made  war  on 
the  Spaniards,  who  were  driven  from  the  big 
water  and  compelled  to  give  up  their  slaves. 

One  of  the  stipulations  of  the  treaty  was  that 
the  Spaniards  should  cover  all  traces  of  the 
mine  and  leave  it  forever. 

Some  fifty  years  ago  two  Mormon  boys  were 
sent  to  live  with  these  Indians  on  the  Colorado ; 
the  main  object  of  the  elders  was  to  have  the 
boys  learn  the  language  and  ways  of  the  red 


1 62  FRONTIER   STORIES 

man  that  they  might  be  used  in  the  work  of 
Christianizing  the  tribes,  in  accordance,  of 
course,  with  the  book  of  Mormon.  For  a 
time  the  children  suffered  greatly,  but  in  the 
course  of  a  few  years  they  became  as  hard  and 
hardy  as  the  red  man. 

Old  Tickaboo,  the  Ute  chief,  was  very  kind 
to  the  pale  children  in  many  ways.  In  time  of 
war  he  hid  them  away  in  the  hills,  and  in  time 
of  peace  he  rode  with  them  in  the  Utah  vales, 
and  taught  their  young  ideas  how  to  shoot. 
The  Indians  were  extremely  jealous  of  the  white 
boys,  and  as  the  years  went  by  and  the  boys 
grew  to  be  men  they  began  to  be  regarded  as 
real  Indians,  and  only  the  older  warriors  who 
remembered  how  tenderly  they  were  cared  for 
by  the  chief  looked  upon  them  with  jealous 
eyes. 

One  of  the  boys,  Shirtz  by  name,  was  a 
special  favorite  of  Tickaboo,  who  was  now  a 
very  old  Indian.  Many  times  he  had  told  his 
white  friend  the  story  of  the  lost  mine ;  how  his 
mother  and  his  mother's  mother  had  worked 
there  as  slaves.  Often  Shirtz  urged  the  old 
man  to  show  him  where  the  mine  was  buried, 


TICK  A  BOO  163 


but  the  snpftrsflfinns  Indian  said  that  the  ghosts 
of  dead  braves  were  there  and  that  they  must 
not  be  disturbed. 

Shirtz  was  a  bearded  man  and  there  were 
streaks  of  silver  in  his  soft  black  hair  when  at 
last  Tickaboo  promised  to  show  him  the  grave  of 
the  Josephine.  It  was  in  the  early  autumn  when 
the  two  men,  with  a  trusty  Indian  cook  and  a 
white  friend  of  Shirtz,  set  out  in  search  of  the 
long-lost  mine.  Miles  and  miles  of  these  sand 
stone  mountains  along  the  Colorado  River  are 
entirely  barren  of  vegetation,  and  water  is 
equally  scarce. 

The  little  band  of  explorers  endured  many 
hardships,  and  at  one  time,  after  travelling  two 
whole  days  without  water,  the  old  chief  lay 
down  to  die.  The  Indian  eye  of  Shirtz  found 
a  narrow  trail  made  by  mountain  sheep  going 
down  to  drink.  After  following  the  trail  for  an 
hour  he  came  to  a  pool  of  pure  water  standing 
in  a  basin-shaped  sand  rock.  They  are  called 
tanks  in  that  country  and  that  one  is  known  to 
the  cowboys  as  Tickaboo  tank.  To  this  pool 
they  carried  the  almost  helpless  form  of  the  old 
chief  and  nursed  him  back  to  life. 


164  FRONTIER   STORIES 

They  had  been  in  camp  nearly  a  week  wait 
ing  for  the  old  man  to  get  strong  enough  to 
resume  the  journey  in  search  of  the  hidden 
treasure,  when  one  afternoon  Tickaboo  climbed 
to  the  top  of  the  canon  wall  and  stood  looking 
with  shaded  eyes  toward  the  setting  sun.  Then 
he  beckoned  Shirtz,  and  Shirtz  went  up  and  stood 
by  the  old  chief  and  gazed  over  the  waste  of 
wind-swept  rock. 

Just  in  front  of  them,  a  little  to  the  north  of 
the  sunset,  they  saw  the  snowy  summit  of  the 
Henry  mountains. 

"  Yonder,"  said  the  old  chief,  pointing  to  the 
west,  "  lies  the  Josephine,  lost  among  the 
twisted  hills.  There  are  the  graves  of  my 
people,  and  the  white  peaks  are  the  monuments 
put  there  by  the  Great  Father  to  mark  the 
place.  One  more  sleep,  my  son,  and  Tickaboo 
will  show  you  great  mine." 

When  the  two  men  came  down  to  camp 
Shirtz  related  to  his  white  friend  all  that  the  old 
man  had  said  and  they  were  in  high  spirits. 
The  old  Indian  cook  was  unable  to  account  for 
the  hilarity  of  the  camp  that  evening,  for  he  was 
kept  in  ignorance  of  the  purpose  of  the  trip. 


TICK  A  BOO  165 


After  supper  Tickaboo  called  for  his  pipe  and 
the  smart  young  man  filled  it  partly  with  gun 
powder  and  partly  with  tobacco.  The  aged 
chief  was  restless.  He  was  idiotically  supersti 
tious,  and  as  he  began  to  pull  at  his  pipe  he 
mused  on  what  he  was  about  to  do.  For  a  half- 
century  he  had  held  this  great  secret  sacredly 
in  his  heart.  At  last  his  love  for  his  white 
friend  had  tempted  him,  standing  as  he  was 
now  on  the  edge  of  the  grave,  to  show  him  the 
ruins  of  the  old  mine. 

"If  it  is  right,"  said  he,  "  we  shall  find  it  — 
if  it  is  wrong  there  will  be  some  token  —  maybe 
so  my  mother's  ghost  will  come  to  me  to-night 
and  tell  me  what  to  do.  More  blanket,  son. 
Waugh  !  How  the  fire  spits." 

Shirtz  wrapped  the  old  chief  warmly  in  an 
extra  blanket,  and  the  two  sat  apart  and  con 
versed  softly.  If  a  prowling  lion  snapped  a 
twig  the  Indian  started  up  and  looked  for  his 
grandmother's  ghost.  A  lone  coyote  stood 
upon  the  canon  wall  and  wailed,  precisely 
where  the  two  men  stood  that  afternoon,  and 
the  chief  said  that  it  was  the  voice  of  a  dead 
brave  warning  him  not  to  show  the  lost  mine  to 
the  white  man. 


1 66  FRONTIER   STORIES 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  aged  Indian ;  "  the 
hero  of  a  hundred  battles  shakes  like  a  squaw. 
Tickaboo  the  brave  is  walking  backward  in  the 
night,  and  he  shall  fall,  and  his  bones  shall  lie 
by  the  trail  to  frighten  the  cayuse  of  the  pale 
face.  These  hills  will  swarm  with  the  Hosteen 
peso-la-ki,  as  the  ant-hills  swarm  with  ants,  and 
like  lean  badgers  they  will  grub  in  the  graves  of 
my  people.  You  were  wicked  not  to  let  me 
die  yesterday  when  I  could  die  in  peace,  with 
this  great  secret  locked  up  in  my  cold  breast." 

"  Did  not  your  father,  Bull-face  the  brave, 
give  this  secret  to  your  keeping?"  said  Shirtz, 
"and  can  you  not  trust  your  son?" 

"  But  you  are  not  of  my  blood ;  much  as  I 
love  you,  I  can  see  the  face  of  the  white  man, 
and  he  is  my  enemy.  You  think  you  love  me 
now,  but  when  you  have  seen  the  face  of  your 
own  father,  Tickaboo  will  be  no  more  to  you. 

"  Yes,  it  is  so  —  the  lambs  go  with  the  sheep, 
the  calves  with  the  cattle ;  and  you  will  forget 
me  when  I  am  gone.  Tickaboo  has  lived  long 
time,  and  has  seen  all  his  people  die,  but  has 
never  been  so  troubled  as  he  is  to-night.  The 
fire  burns  low,  the  yellow  moon  is  ashamed  to 


TICK  A  BOO  167 


shine  — the  lean  coyote  keeps  his  place  on  the 
ricks  above ;  there  is  much  meaning,  my  son, 
in  all  this.  Tickaboo  the  brave  is  no  more  — 
Tickaboo  is  a  squaw  to-night,  the  child  of  a 
white  man  stands  between  him  and  his  people." 

Again  the  coyote  howled  on  the  hill,  there 
there  was  a  flash  —  a  puff  of  smoke  and  Ticka- 
boo's  pipe  went  to  pieces.  In  vain  did  the 
white  men  endeavor  to  persuade  the  old  Indian 
that  it  was  only  a  joke,  and  that  Shirtz's  friend 
had  put  powder  in  the  pipe. 

"It  was  a  token — a  warning,"  the  old  man 
said,  and  they  would  go  no  further. 

All  night  the  old  chief  sat  wrapped  in 
thought  and  blankets,  gazing  into  the  flickering 
fire  :  and  at  the  dawn  of  day  the  little  band  began 
the  journey  back  to  the  village  of  the  Utes. 
The  little  joke  of  the  white  man  had  cost  him 
and  his  friend  a  fortune,  for  Tickaboo  could 
doubtless  have  found  the  lost  mine,  but  he  alone 
held  the  secret. 


ILittle 


LITTLE   CAYUSE. 

WHEN  there  were  no  railroads  west  of 
Missouri  or  east  of  California,  they 
used  to  carry  mail  and  light  freight  on  horse 
back  between  St.  Joe  and  Sacramento.  This 
service  was  known  as  the  pony  express.  Horses 
swift  and  strong,  and  riders  brave  and  enduring 
were  employed,  and  relay  stations  were  set  fifty 
miles  apart  across  the  great  American  desert. 

Away  out  in  Wyoming  there  lived  a  trapper 
who  was  known  only  by  the  name  of  "  Whip- 
saw  " —  a  name  given  him  by  a  gambler  in 
Deadwood. 

A  Sioux  who  had  a  hideous  scar  upon  his 
face  had  come  to  this  trapper's  camp  one  win 
ter's  day  with  a  Pawnee  baby,  naked  and  nearly 
frozen.  The  Sioux  wanted  to  sell  the  boy,  and 
the  trapper  gave  him  a  knife  and  kept  the 
child.  The  young  Pawnee  was  not  more  than 
three  years  old. 


FRONTIER   STORIES 


Two  years  later  Whipsaw  went  to  keep  the 
station  called  White  Horse  for  the  pony  express, 
taking  the  Pawnee  with  him.  The  little  fellow 
grew  to  love  his  white  father,  and  seemed  to 
conceive  a  bitter  hatred  for  all  Indians.  Like 
other  Indians,  he  was  ever  alert.  The  scratch 
of  a  prowling  bear  on  the  cabin  door  or  the 
cry  of  a  lone  wolf  on  a  far-off  hill  would  wake 
him  from  a  sound  sleep.  He  would  hear  the 
hoofs  of  the  incoming  horses  beating  the  plains 
a  mile  away,  and  long  before  his  white  master 
could  hear  the  faintest  sound. 

"Cayuse,  Cayuse,"  he  would  whisper  in  the 
dead  of  night.  He  was  an  alarm-clock  for  the 
station. 

The  little  Pawnee  was  never  too  cold  or  too 
sleepy  to  go  out  and  welcome  the  weary  rider 
and  pat  the  nose  of  the  spent  steed,  saying 
softly  the  while,  "  Cayuse,  Cayuse." 

In  fact,  it  was  the  boy's  great  fondness  for 
horses  that  caused  Whipsaw  to  call  him  "  Little 
Cayuse." 

One  night  Whipsaw  woke,  and  found  the  boy 
sitting  up  in  his  blankets  listening. 

"  Cayuse?  "  asked  Whipsaw. 


LITTLE   CAYUSE  173 

"  Long  time,"  said  the  boy,  shaking  his 
head.  "  Long  time  —  no  cayuse." 

Then  they  knew  what  the  child  meant.  It 
was  one  o'clock;  the  pony  express  was  an 
hour  late  and  the  boy  knew,  instinctively,  that 
it  was  so. 

For  another  hour  the  two  men  sat  and 
waited  for  a  sign  from  the  boy,  who  listened 
for  the  sound  of  the  horse's  feet.  Presently 
the  Pawnee  crawled  out,  put  his  ear  to  the 
ground,  came  back  and  shook  his  master. 

"  Cayuse?"  asked  Whipsaw. 

"  Heap  cayuse,"  was  the  boy's  reply,  and 
they  understood. 

Little  Cayuse  seized  his  rifle,  slipped  out  and 
the  two  men  followed  him.  To  guard  against 
surprises  of  this  sort,  Whipsaw  had  dug  short 
trenches,  deep  enough  to  hide  a  man,  all  about 
the  cabin,  and  now  to  his  surprise,  Little  Cay 
use  planted  himself  in  one  of  these  holes. 
Without  a  word  the  two  men  took  places,  one 
to  the  right  the  other  to  the  left  of  the  boy,  and 
waited. 

The  clouds  were  breaking,  and  in  the  star 
light  they  could  see  the  Sioux,  six  of  them, 


174  FRONTIER  STORIES 

near  the  cabin  door.  They  listened  —  one  of 
them  pushed  the  door  open,  Now  an  Indian 
went  in,  came  out  a  moment  later  and  they  all 
filed  in,  at  the  very  moment  that  Whipsaw  was 
about  to  open  fire.  Instantly  he  changed  his 
plan.  They  would  charge  on  the  cabin  door 
and  fight  the  gang,  which  outnumbered  them, 
even  counting  the  boy,  two  to  one.  Without  a 
word  Whipsaw  got  to  his  feet,  and  instantly 
his  companions  were  at  his  side. 

Bob  the  express  rider  held  his  rifle,  the 
trapper  laid  his  upon  the  ground  and  held  a 
six-shot  revolver  in  either  hand.  It  was  to 
be  close  and  rapid  fighting;  he  would  empty 
his  six-shooters  and  after  that  the  knife.  Little 
Cayuse  grasped  his  rifle  with  fourteen  shots  in 
the  magazine.  There  was  no  word  of  com 
mand,  but  as  Whipsaw  leaned  forward  they  all 
started  double  quick  for  the  cabin.  Ten  paces 
from  the  door  they  stopped,  the  boy  still  sand 
wiched  between  the  men.  The  Sioux  must 
have  heard  them,  for  now  they  came  pouring 
out.  Before  they  had  gained  the  open  air  the 
little  regiment  opened  fire.  Two  of  the  Indians 
fell,  the  others  returned  the  fire,  but  with  bad 


LITTLE   CAYUSE 


aim.  Another  round  from  the  white  men  and 
two  more  Sioux  bit  the  dust.  Bob  was  pump 
ing  his  rifle,  when  a  ball  from  the  cabin  door 
shattered  his  right  shoulder.  Dropping  the 
gun  he  pulled  his  six  shooter  and  continued  to 
fight.  Having  emptied  both  of  the  revolvers, 
Whipsaw  slammed  one  of  them  into  the  face  of 
a  Sioux,  who  came  for  him  with  a  knife.  The 
two  men  began  fighting  close  now,  while  Little 
Cayuse  kept  pumping  small  shot  into  the 
other  remaining  Sioux.  Seeing  Whipsaw  hard 
pressed,  the  boy  began  to  watch  for  a  chance 
to  use  his  little  rifle.  Bob  succeeded  at  last 
in  stopping  his  man,  and  then  fell  in  a  faint 
from  loss  of  blood.  Whipsaw  had  been  shot 
and  badly  cut,  when  his  antagonist  paused  to 
get  advantage.  Instantly  Little  Cayuse  shoved 
the  rifle  as  near  the  Sioux's  left  side  as  he 
could  get  it  and  pulled  the  trigger,  and  the  big, 
bad  Indian  sank  in  a  heap. 

In  the  sag  not  far  away  they  found  the  horses 
that  the  robbers  had  ridden  and  the  express 
pony,  with  the  pouch  still  on  the  saddle, 
standing  in  a  bunch,  their  bridles  tied  together. 

About  a    mile   up  the   trail  they  found   the 


176  FRONTIER  STORIES 

body  of  the  rider,  stiff  and  cold,  with  a  bullet 
hole  in  his  head,  and  carried  him  back  and 
buried  him,  and  there  would  n't  have  been  a 
soul  at  the  funeral  but  for  Little  Cayuse. 

The  next  day  when  they  were  caching  the 
carcasses  of  the  dead  Indians,  Little  Cayuse 
shocked  and  surprised  the  white  men  by  con 
stantly  clubbing  and  kicking  the  corpses.  Of 
a  sudden  he  gave  a  wild  yell,  seized  his  rifle 
and  began  emptying  it  into  one  of  the  dead 
Indians.  Whipsaw  took  the  gun  away  from 
him. 

"See  !  see  !  "  cried  the  boy,  pointing  at  the 
dead  Indian,  and  the  trapper  recognized  in  the 
object  of  the  boy's  wrath  the  hideous  features 
of  the  scar-faced  Sioux  who  had  sold  the  child, 
by  whose  hands  he  had  in  his  own  good  time, 
been  taken  off. 

Renegade  Indians  had  made  so  much  trouble 
at  White  Horse  station  that  Whipsaw  and  Little 
Cayuse,  determined  to  make  it  hot  for  the  next 
gang  that  called. 

White  Horse  was  the  wildest,  most  dangerous 
and  desolate  station  on  the  pony-express  line 


LITTLE  CAYUSE  177 

between  St.  Joe  and  Sacramento.  The  place 
had  been  cleaned  out  on  an  average  of  once  a 
month  since  its  establishment,  and  Wells,  Fargo, 
&  Co.  were  growing  weary  finding  horses  and 
feed  for  all  the  lawless  bands  in  Wyoming  and 
surrounding  territories. 

They  had  asked  Whipsaw  what  he  required 
for  the  better  protection  of  the  station  ;  and  the 
ponies  galloped  back  to  Sacramento  with  his 
answer :  — 

11 A  jug  of  squirrel  whiskey,  six  six-shooters, 
a  whole  lot  of  firecrackers,  and  a  man." 

The  man  with  the  supplies  came  up  from 
California  a  few  days  later,  and  Whipsaw  began 
to  build  his  traps.  He  had  been  a  trapper  by 
profession  up  to  the  time  he  came  to  White 
Horse  to  take  charge  of  the  station. 

He  gave  two  of  the  six-shooters  to  the  new 
man,  lifted  a  log  with  the  help  of  his  compan 
ions,  and  fixed  the  other  four  firmly  in  a  crack, 
all  pointing  into  the  cabin  and  toward  the  door. 
These  instruments  of  death  were  so  grouped 
that  Little  Cayuse,  lying  on  the  dirt-roof  of 
the  lean-to,  could  work  them.  A  chink  was 
knocked  out,  and  through  this  opening  the  boy 


178  FRONTIER   STORIES 

was  expected   to  feed  the  fireworks  when  the 
house  was  full  of  Indians. 

They  made  the  "  cat  hole  "  large  enough  for 
Little  Cayuse,  and  in  that  way  he  could  slip 
from  the  cabin  to  the  stable,  and  so  to  the  roof 
of  the  shed. 

When  the  boy  had  played  with  his  battery 
and  had  mastered  the  mystery  of  the  firecrack 
ers,  Whipsaw  expressed  the  belief  that  the  thing 
would  be  a  success.  Little  Cayuse  grinned  with 
savage  delight  as  he  listened  to  the  din  of 
the  revolvers  and  the  noise  of  crackers. 

Almost  100  yards  from  the  cabin  door  and 
some  40  or  50  yards  apart,  they  dug  three  pits, 
long  enough  for  a  man  to  lie  down  in.  These 
pits  were  covered  over  with  stout  willows  and 
earth,  save  a  space  at  the  end  next  to  the  house, 
which  was  covered  by  a  trap  door  hung  to  one 
of  the  willows  by  strong  leather  straps.  The 
tops  of  the  doors  were  carpeted  with  burlap, 
that  had  been  wet  and  dabbed  on  the  desert 
until  it  caught  the  color  of  the  earth.  It  was 
summer  time,  and  Whipsaw,  the  extra  man,  and 
the  rider  who  was  lying  over  there,  now  took 
their  blankets  and  slept  in  the  pits.  Little 


LITTLE    CAYUSE 


179 


Cayuse,  the  seven-year-old  Pawnee,  slept  in  the 
cabin,  for  no  Indian  could  come  near  him  without 
his  knowledge  of  the  presence  of  the  stranger. 

They  had  been  sleeping  out  for  more  than  a 
month,  and  the  pony- express  riders  had  be 
gun  to  complain,  when  the  west-bound  rider, 
due  at  White  Horse  at  midnight,  failed  to  arrive. 
At  one  o'  clock  Little  Cayuse  crept  out  to  where 
Whipsaw  slept,  and  whispered :  "  Heap  long 
time  —  me  no  see  'em  cayuse." 

"  What  you  see?" 

"  Me  see  'em  heap  gun  —  far  away,  boom, 
boom,  boom,  "  said  the  boy. 

One  of  the  many  peculiarities  of  Little 
Cayuse  was  that  he  never  "  heard  "  anything. 
He  insisted  always  that  he  "  saw  "  it  thunder,  or 
that  he  "  saw  "  the  cayuse,  the  pony  bringing  the 
mail,  far  away  in  the  dead  of  night. 

So  Whipsaw  knew  that  he  had  heard  the 
sound  of  firearms,  and  made  no  doubt  that  the 
express  rider  had  been  killed. 

Whipsaw  ordered  the  boy  to  creep  to  the 
other  pits,  warn  the  men,  and  get  back  to  his 
place. 

The  jug   of  "  bug  juice, "  as  he  called   it, 


180  FRONTIER   STORIES 

Whipsaw  had  kept  constantly  just  inside  the 
open  door  of  the  cabin. 

Presently  an  Indian  came  crouching  under 
the  eaves  of  the  shed.  Little  Cayuse  peering 
over  could  see  his  bent  back  directly  under 
him,  and  could  hardly  resist  the  temptation  to 
plug  him  with  the  short  rifle  that  had  been 
given  him  by  the  express  company,  but  he 
knew  that  this  was  only  a  scout,  or  spy,  and 
that  more  Indians  were  at  hand.  In  a  little 
while  the  Indian  worked  his  way  to  the  cabin 
door,  found  the  jug,  smelled  of  it,  took  a  drink, 
and  then  darted  away  as  noiselessly  as  a  cat. 

It  was  some  time  before  a  sound  was  heard, 
for  the  band  of  renegades  would  not  stir  until 
they  had  drained  the  two-gallon  jug. 

Usually  these  bands  were  small,  from  six  to  a 
dozen  men,  but  this  gang  had  thirty  or  forty  des 
perate  Indians  in  it.  The  first  intimation  Little 
Cayuse  had  of  the  return  of  the  band  was  the 
patter  of  feet,  like  the  noise  by  a  band  of  boys, 
running  barefoot  down  a  dusty  lane,  and  then 
he  saw  the  dark  forms  of  the  Indians  coming 
for  the  cabin  like  a  swarm  of  grasshoppers. 

They   believed    that    all  the    people   of  the 


LITTLE    CAYUSE  l8l 

station  were  in  the  house  asleep,  and  would 
be  caught  like  rats  in  a  trap.  Outside  the 
door  they  paused  for  an  instant,  drew  their 
hatchets,  and  then  rushed  into  the  cabin.  As 
soon  as  he  heard  their  shuffling  feet  upon  the 
floor,  Little  Cayuse  began  working  his  battery. 
The  Indians  without  rushed  to  the  rescue  of 
their  comrades  within,  who,  being  unable  to 
find  the  door,  endeavored  to  fly  from  a  hogan 
whose  very  walls  breathed  thunder  and  light 
ning.  The  moment  he  had  emptied  one 
chamber  of  each  of  the  pistols,  the  Indian  boy 
lighted  a  few  hundred  fire-crackers  and  shoved 
them  through  the  crack,  rolled  loosely  in  a 
newspaper  so  as  to  hide  the  fire.  When  these 
began  to  explode  amid  the  savages,  the  boy  be 
gan  the  work  of  emptying  the  revolvers  that 
were  fixed  fast  in  the  wall.  To  add  to  the  con 
fusion,  the  men  in  the  pits  now  put  up  their 
heads  and  each  emptied  a  pair  of  forty-fives 
into  the  struggling  band  of  savages.  Those 
rushing  in  collided  with  those  coming  out, 
and  they  all  stumbled  and  fell  over  the  twisted 
bodies  of  the  dying  and  dead.  In  the  blind 
ing  smoke,  the  drunken  savages  began  firing  their 


I  82  FRONTIER   STORIES 

rifles  wildly,  or  hacked  one  another  to  death  in 
the  awful  darkness  of  the  place ;  all  of  which 
the  more  confused  the  Indians  without,  caus 
ing  them  to  continue  the  struggle  to  gain  an 
entrance  to  the  cabin. 

Each  passing  moment  added  to  the  awfulness 
of  the  scene.  The  wild  war-whoops  of  these 
painted  pirates  of  the  plain,  the  rattle  of  rifles, 
the  shrieks  of  the  wounded,  and  the  strangled 
cries  of  the  dying,  were  horrible  to  hear. 

Having  re-loaded  their  six-shooters,  to  have 
handy  for  close  fighting,  the  men  in  the  pits 
now  began  to  use  their  rifles  on  the  wild  rabble 
of  red  skins,  who  were  struggling  at  the  door  of 
the  cabin. 

Finding  no  one  to  attack,  panic-stricken  and 
bewildered,  the  Indians,  with  a  wild  yell  of 
despair,  turned  to  fly.  Catching  glimpses  of 
the  glare  of  the  guns  that  were  aimed  at  them 
from  the  pits,  the  savages  now  rushed  toward 
these  yellow  flames. 

Instantly  the  men  dropped  back  like  so  many 
prairie  dogs,  pulled  the  doors  down,  and  were 
gone. 

Being  unable  to  compete  with  an  enemy  that 


LITTLE   CAYUSE  183 

could  make  itself  visible  or  invisible  at  will,  that 
could  come  and  go  like  the  spirits  of  the  dead, 
the  Indians,  with  another  wild,  despairing  cry, 
fled  from  the  field,  leaving  the  dead  to  the 
mercies  of  the  mysterious  foe. 

About  a  month  after  the  battle  at  White 
Horse,  Bob  was  able  to  take  his  ride  again  on 
the  pony  express- 
Little  Cayuse  was  now  more  of  a  hero  than 
ever.  The  most  he  had  done  up  to  that  night 
had  been  to  warn  the  men  when  the  Sioux 
were  coming,  but  now  it  became  known  that 
he  had  not  only  detected  the  enemy  in  the 
act  of  stealing  upon  the  station,  but  had  actu 
ally  killed  the  leader  of  the  murderous  band 
with  his  "thirty-eight." 

One  day  when  Whipsaw  and  the  express 
rider,  who  lay  over  at  White  Horse,  were  out 
after  buffalo,  Little  Cayuse  was  watching  the 
station.  The  hunters  had  been  lured  away  by 
the  flying  herd,  and  when  the  sun  hung  low  in 
the  clear,  hot  sky,  they  had  not  yet  returned. 
For  nearly  an  hour  the  Indian  boy  had  been 
watching  a  bare-backed  broncho  that  seemed 


184  FRONTIER  STORIES 

to   be    feeding    about    a   mile   away,  but   kept 
working  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  station. 

Presently  the  sharp  eye  of  the  Pawnee  saw 
that  the  animal  had  two  pairs  of  front  legs. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  made  out  that 
the  rider  was  stalking  in  the  shadow  of  the 
horse.  To  and  fro  the  animal  went,  out 
toward  the  sunset  that  was  blinding  the  boy, 
and  at  each  turn  came  nearer  to  the  station. 
When  at  last  the  round,  red  sun  went  down, 
and  the  men  did  not  return,  the  brave  little 
watchman  took  his  rifle  and  planted  himself  in 
the  cabin  door.  At  dusk  the  horse  began  to 
circle  round  the  cabin,  but  the  boy  kept  his 
place.  Now  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
separated  the  horse  and  the  station. 

The  owner  of  the  animal  now  started  for  the 
cabin  from  the  rear,  and  when  he  reached  the 
shed,  or  lean-to  in  which  the  express  horses 
were  kept,  he  stopped.  The  boy  cocked  his 
ear  and  his  rifle. 

The  man  started  his  horse  round  the  house 
one  way,  and  crept  round  the  other  side  on 
tiptoe.  As  the  head  of  the  horse  showed  up 
at  the  corner  of  the  cabin,  Little  Cayuse  stood 


LITTLE   CAYUSE  185 

up  to  face  whatever  or  whoever  might  come, 
and  instantly  a  powerful  Sioux  sprang  upon 
him  from  behind,  twisted  the  gun  from  his 
slender  hands,  threw  him  upon  the  back  of 
his  horse  and  vaulted  up  behind  him. 

The  big  Indian  gazed  down  upon  the  little 
toy  gun  contemptuously,  swept  the  horizon 
with  his  eagle  eye,  leaned  forward,  clamped 
the  horse  with  his  knees,  and  the  animal 
galloped  away. 

A  half-hour  later  Whipsaw  and  Bob,  tired 
and  hungry,  rode  up  to  the  cabin.  "  Cayuse  ! " 
called  Whipsaw,  but  there  was  no  answer. 

Dismounting,  Bob  threw  the  door  of  the 
shed  open,  for  his  first  thought  was  of  the 
express  pony,  and  was  greeted  by  a  cheerful 
neigh.  Whipsaw  went  into  the  cabin,  came 
out,  looked  at  his  companion,  and  uttered  the 
one  word,  "Gone."  He  stopped  and  lifted 
the  boy's  rifle,  that  had  been  discharged  in  the 
scuffle,  saw  the  empty  shell  in  the  "  death 
chamber,"  and  wondered  where  the  bullet  had 
gone.  It  seemed  to  be  a  consolation  to  find 
that  the  boy  had  made  some  sort  of  a  fight. 
He  had  not  gone  willingly  away  with  his  own 


I  86  FRONTIER   STORIES 

people.  He  had  been  stolen,  captured,  and 
carried  away  by  the  Sioux,  who  would  hold  him 
for  a  high  reward,  unless  the  boy  should  invite 
death  by  attempting  to  escape. 

That  night  the  men  had  to  keep  watch  for 
the  first  time  for  more  than  a  year,  for  Little 
Cayuse  would  not  be  there  to  call  them  when 
the  first  faint  sound  of  horses'  feet  was  heard 
on  the  distant  plain. 

As  soon  as  it  was  light  Whipsaw  took  the 
trail  of  the  horse  that  had  carried  the  boy 
away.  In  a  sag,  not  far  from  the  cabin,  he 
saw  where  an  extra  horse  had  been  tethered, 
and  he  knew  then  that  the  capture  of  Little 
Cayuse  had  been  the  result  of  a  well-laid  plan, 
and  that  it  would  be  useless  to  follow  the 
thief. 

The  news  of  the  capture  was  carried  east  to 
St.  Joe  and  west  to  Sacramento  by  the  riders 
of  the  flying  bronchos  that  were  racing  across 
the  continent.  The  company  immediately 
offered  a  reward  for  the  recapture  of  the 
Indian  boy,  who  had  become  not  only  an 
alarm  clock,  but  a  watch  dog,  at  the  most 
dangerous  station  on  the  entire  route. 


LITTLE    CAYUSE 


I87 


For  six  hours  the  Pawnee,  with  feet  lashed 
to  the  saddle,  rode  in  front  of  his  captor. 
Swift  as  the  wind,  silent  as  the  shadows  of 
birds,  they  swept  over  the  sage-covered  desert 
into  the  territory  of  Nebraska. 

For  nearly  a  year  Little  Cayuse  lived  among 
the  Sioux,  but  he  never  forgot  his  white  master. 
In  all  this  time  he  made  no  attempt  to  escape, 
and  his  captors  began  to  believe  that  the  boy 
had  become  reconciled  to  his  fate.  It  would 
be  pleasant  to  write  here  that  Little  Cayuse 
was  vastly  superior  to  other  Indians,  —  that  he 
went  regularly  to  the  Platte,  took  off  his  belt, 
and  bathed  him  in  the  running  stream,  —  but 
he  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  If  he  plunged 
into  the  river  occasionally  it  was  because  its 
water  was  cool  and  refreshing,  and  not  because 
he  panted  to  be  clean.  Cleanliness  is  next  to 
godliness.  Little  Cayuse  was  an  Indian.  He 
would  skin  a  rabbit  alive  to  see  how  long  it 
would  live  naked,  and  share  his  dinner  with  a 
crippled  dog. 

A  mill-run  of  Indians  of  that  day  and  age, 
regardless  of  tribe  or  locality,  would  probably 
show  a  result  of  about  one  Jekyll  to  sixteen 
Hydes. 


i/k  / 


1 88  FRONTIER   STORIES 

In  the  spring  and  summer  following  the  cap 
ture  of  the  boy  the  Sioux  were  busy  with  the 
Pawnees  and  the  United  States  troops.  The 
band  in  which  the  boy  was  held  were  forced  to 
break  camp  one  dark  night  and  fly  for  their 
lives. 

Little  Cayuse  took  advantage  of  the  situation 
and  escaped.  Not  knowing  that  the  Pawnees, 
who  were  after  the  Sioux,  were  his  own  people, 
he  turned  his  face  to  the  west  and  set  out  to 
find  his  white  friend.  He  travelled  all  night, 
not  knowing  exactly  to  what  point  of  the  com 
pass  his  swift  feet  were  carrying  him,  and  at 
dawn  hid  beneath  the  bank  of  the  river. 
When  the  sun  went  down  he  set  his  face  toward 
the  gold  and  resumed  his  journey.  He  made 
note  of  the  stars,  so  that  when  the  gold  was 
gone  he  was  able  to  keep  his  course  toward  the 
west. 

It  was  near  midnight  of  the  second  "  sleep  ;  " 
the  boy  was  hungry  and  tired.  He  knew  by 
his  native  instinct  that  he  must  be  near  the 
station  from  which  the  Sioux  had  carried  him  a 
year  ago,  and  concluded  to  lie  down  and  rest 
until  morning.  He  ate  the  last  of  a  small 


LITTLE    CAYUSE  189 

piece  of  dried  buffalo  meat  that  he  had  carried 
with  him.  Away  off  toward  the  mountains  at 
the  north  he  heard  a  lone  wolf  howl.  Another 
answered  from  the  south  of  him.  The  boy, 
being  unarmed,  was  sore  afraid.  He  got  to 
his  feet,  listened,  and  hurried  on.  Presently 
he  heard  a  sage-bush  rattle,  looked  back,  and 
saw  a  dark  shadow  following  him.  He  stopped 
short,  and  the  shadow  stopped.  He  turned 
and  ran  toward  it,  beating  the  night  air  with 
his  arms.  The  shadow  flounced  noiselessly  to 
one  side,  and  he  knew  it  was  a  wolf. 

He  turned  and  ran  for  a  hundred  yards, 
glanced  back,  and  the  shadow  was  at  his  heels. 
He  faced  about,  and  to  his  horror  there  were 
three  or  four  other  shadows  following  the 
first. 

He  ran  at  them  ;  they  flounced  about,  but 
did  not  run  away.  Now  he  had  to  study  the 
stars  to  get  his  bearings  again,  and,  when  he 
started  forward,  found  himself  surrounded  by 
the  gaunt,  gray  wolves  of  the  plain.  Brave  as 
he  was,  the  boy's  heart  stood  still,  while  the 
hungry  animals  crouched  nearer.  He  tried  to 
pick  up  something  to  throw,  but  there  was 


FRONTIER   STORIES 


nothing    but    the    dry    earth    and    the    sage 
brush. 

Far  down  the  plain  he  thought  he  heard  the 
hoofs  of  a  horse  hitting  the  trail.  He  put  his 
ear  to  the  earth  and  heard  to  his  joy  the  un 
mistakable  callatter,  callatter,  of  a  horse's  flying 
feet.  Near  and  nearer  came  the  sound,  and 
closer  crept  the  wild  dogs  of  the  desert.  The 
boy's  trained  ear  told  him  that  he  was  north 
of  the  trail  upon  which  the  horse  seemed  to  be 
travelling,  and  that  the  lone  rider  would  pass 
to  the  south  of  him.  Darting  this  way  and  that 
he  succeeded  in  driving  the  wolves  away  for 
a  moment,  and  then  hurried  across  the  sage 
brush.  He  had  not  gone  a  hundred  yards 
before  he  found  himself  surrounded  by  the 
band  again.  The  horse  was  now  so  near  that 
he  could  hear  the  animal's  breath  coming  with 
a  snort  like  the  exhaust  of  a  locomotive  at 
each  jump,  and  the  wolves  were  so  close  to 
him  that  he  could  hear  them  lick  their  chops, 
and  see  their  eyes  shining  like  green  glass  in 
the  darkness.  Now  he  could  see  the  horse 
outlined  against  the  horizon  and  the  rider  lean 
ing  forward  holding  the  broncho  hard  between 


LITTLE   CAYUSE  19  I 

his  knees.  The  boy  made  another  desperate 
effort  to  escape  from  his  pursuers,  darted  for 
ward  and  a  moment  later  his  bare  feet  felt  the 
trail.  At  that  moment  one  of  the  wolves 
snapped  his  sharp  teeth  through  the  calf  of 
the  boy's  leg,  threw  him  to  the  ground  and  in 
stantly  he  was  covered  by  a  dozen  leaping, 
snarling,  snapping  wolves  that  completely 
blocked  the  trail.  The  horse  stopped  so  sud 
denly  that  a  less  watchful  rider  would  have 
been  hurled  into  the  heap. 

"Yeh  pirates  o'  th'  plain,"  cried  the  man, 
whipping  out  a  six-shooter.  He  knew  the 
rolling  brown  bundle  for  a  band  of  wolves,  and 
reckoned  that  below  the  heap  there  struggled 
a  buffalo  calf  or  a  young  antelope. 

As  the  rider  began  to  empty  his  revolver 
rapidly  into  the  band  they  began  to  scatter, 
and  as  the  smoke  cleared  away  the  Pawnee, 
torn  and  bleeding,  staggered  to  his  feet. 

"Cayuse  !  "  cried  the  rider. 

"  Wuh  !  "  grunted  the  Indian,  as  he  recog 
nized  his  old  master,  Whipsaw. 

The  man  grasped  the  boy  by  one  arm  and 
lifted  him  to  the  back  of  the  horse.  A  wolf 


192  FRONTIER   STORIES 

snapped  at  the  boy's  feet.  Taking  another 
shot  at  them,  Whipsavv  scattered  the  band  and 
the  horse  dashed  away  again.  But  these  wolves 
had  tasted  blood,  and  they  gave  chase. 

A  mile  away,  in  the  cabin  at  White  Horse, 
the  rider  who  was  to  carry  the  mail  on  West, 
and  the  wounded  rider  whose  place  Whipsaw 
had  taken,  heard  the  rattle  of  the  revolver, 
armed  themselves  and  started  up  the  trail. 

Meanwhile  the  bloodthirsty  wolves  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  snapping  at  the  flying  heels 
of  the  frightened  horse  and  leaping  up  in  a 
mad  effort  to  drag  the  wounded  boy,  whose 
blood  had  reddened  their  tongues,  from  the 
saddle. 

Holding  the  boy  with  one  hand  and  leaving 
the  horse  to  guide  himself,  Whipsaw  pointed  his 
pistol  over  his  shoulder  and  pumped  lead  into 
the  darkness  behind  him.  An  occasional  yelp 
told  of  a  wolf  that  had  been  hit,  but  still  the 
band  came  on. 

As  the  men  came  from  the  cabin  the  spent 
horse  galloped  up  to  the  door,  with  the  howl 
ing  wolves  at  his  heels. 

A  few  rounds  from  the  rifles  of  the  two  men 


LITTLE   CAYUSE  193 

and  the  sight  and  scent  of  civilization  soon  put 
the  wolves  to  flight,  and  the  fresh  rider,  with  a 
fresh  horse,  dashed  on  toward  the  coast. 

The  wounded  rider  led  the  tired  horse  away. 
Whipsaw  carried  the  boy  into  the  cabin  and 
laid  him  tenderly  upon  his  blankets,  that  had 
been  kept  ready  and  waiting  for  him  all  these 
weeks  and  months.  His  chest,  arms,  and  legs 
were  fearfully  torn,  and  into  the  open  wounds 
Whipsaw  poured  the  contents  of  a  quart  bottle. 
Not  a  murmur  nor  a  moan  came  from  the 
hero  of  eight  summers  as  the  red  liquor  was 
poured  into  his  bleeding  wounds. 

"There's  five  hundred  in  this  for  you,"  said 
the  pony-express  man,  limping  in  from  the 
shed.  "An*  it  might  have  been  mine  ef  it 
hadn't  been  fer  them  infernal  Injins." 

Whipsaw  made  no  reply,  for  he  was  not 
thinking  of  the  reward  that  had  been  offered 
by  Wells,  Fargo,  &  Co.,  owners  of  the  pony 
express.  He  was  thinking  of  the  brave  boy 
who  had  once  saved  his  life.  The  gray  old 
plainsman  was  deeply  touched  by  the  boy's 
bravery,  and  his  eyes  were  wet  for  the  first 
time  within  a  quarter  of  a  century.  He  would 
13 


194  FRONTIER   STORIES 

not  let  his  rough  companion  see  his  tears,  but 
allowed  them  to  fall  upon  the  brown  face  of 
the  boy. 

"  Poor  Little  Cayuse,"  said  Whipsaw. 

"  Wuh  !  "  said  Little  Cayuse. 


of 


THE    WAHSATCH    BAND    OF 
BANDITS. 

TT  7HEN  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande 
V  V  Railroad  was  extended  through  the 
black  canon  of  the  Gunnison,  over  Soldier 
Summit  a'nd  across  the  Utah  Desert  to  the  city 
of  Salt  Lake,  it  opened  a  new  and  fruitful  field 
for  enterprising  train  robbers.  It  brought 
business  to  the  very  door,  so  to  speak,  of  a 
band  of  bandits  who  had  been  driven  from 
Purgatory  range  in  Colorado  and  were  now 
living  a  rather  monotonous  life  in  the  Wahsatch 
Mountains  in  Utah.  By  changing  their  names 
and  whiskers  as  often  as  they  changed  their 
postoffice  address,  and  by  receiving  their  mail 
anonymously,  these  hunted  criminals  were  able 
for  a  time  to  keep  clear  of  the  officers  of  the 
law,  and  to  make  occasional  sorties  into  the 
desert  for  the  purpose  of  flagging  the  midnight 
express.  This  new  and  enterprising  railroad, 


198  FRONTIER   STORIES 

being  the  most  direct  route,  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  carrying  the  gold  from  the  San 
Francisco  Mint  to  the  Treasury  at  Washington 
or  the  Sub-Treasury  at  New  York,  and  this 
fact  was  among  the  many  things  known  to  the 
half-breed  leader  of  the  Wahsatch  band.  These 
bandits  were  well  mounted,  having  the  pick  of 
the  thousands  of  splendid  horses  that  graze  in 
the  broad  and  beautiful  plain  that  begins  at 
Fruitville  and  ends  at  Ogden.  The  Mormons 
had  organized  and  hunted  the  gang,  but  with 
poor  success.  When  they  were  in  need  of 
meat  the  outlaws  would  ride  into  the  valley, 
rope  and  slaughter  a  steer  or  sheep,  and  long 
before  daylight  be  sleeping  in  their  mountain 
caves  again. 

If  they  wanted  something  from  a  grocer  they 
would  enter  one  of  the  quiet  Mormon  villages, 
disguised  as  cowboys  or  Indians,  play  drunk, 
shoot  up  the  town,  and  in  the  excitement  help 
themselves  and  ride  away,  while  the  people 
peered  after  them,  only  too  glad  to  let  them  go. 

An  Indian  chief,  who  had  been  a  warrior  of 
some  note  in  his  time,  offered,  for  a  considerable 
reward,  to  capture  or  kill  the  outlaws.  Having 


THE    WAHSATCH  BAND  OF  BANDITS     199 

received  the  proper  authority,  he  made  a  Spanish 
sortie.  With  a  dozen  men,  well  mounted,  this 
Indian  started  for  the  hills  to  hunt  the  bandits. 
All  the  people  of  the  valley  gave  aid  to  the 
Indians,  thinking  perhaps  that  whatever  the 
result  might  be,  the  loss  to  the  church  would 
be  trifling. 

At  the  last  little  town  near  the  foot  of  the 
range  the  red  chief  and  his  band  were  given  an 
ovation,  with  red  liquor  on  the  side.  Nothing 
can  be  worse  for  a  community  than  the  mixing 
of  firewater,  firearms,  and  Indians. 

The  outlaws  heard  of  the  coming  of  the  red 
sheriff,  and  arranged  a  reception  for  him. 

They  had  their  hiding-place  in  a  narrow 
canon,  that  pinched  out  at  the  top  so  that  a 
horseman  could  ride  so  far  and  no  farther. 

The  trail  to  this  canon  led  over  a  sweep  of 
barren  rock,  so  that  it  was  difficult  to  follow. 
But  now,  being  anxious  to  have  the  Indians 
find  them,  the  bandits  rode  down  the  canon 
to  the  valley,  turned  and  came  back  again, 
making  a  new,  plain  trail.  Then,  carrying  their 
horses  and  other  chattels  out  over  the  blind 
trail,  they  established  themselves  at  a  point 


2OO  FRONTIER   STORIES 

above  the   old    camp    and    beyond  where   the 
canon  walls   came  together. 

The  Indians  soon  found  the  trail,  and,  flushed 
with  firewater,  they  gave  chase.  In  a  few 
hours,  and  much  sooner  than  they  expected, 
they  came  upon  the  old  camp,  and  before 
they  could  raise  their  rifles  the  outlaws  were 
pouring  lead  into  them  from  the  crags  above. 

Three  or  four  of  the  Indians  fell  at  the  first 
fire,  and  what  added  to  the  horror  of  the  situ 
ation  was  that  they  were  unable  to  return  the 
fire,  so  completely  were  the  outlaws  hidden  in 
the  jagged  rock.  Panic-stricken,  the  Indians 
dashed  down  the  canon,  but  the  bandits  con 
tinued  to  shower  the  lead  after  them.  The 
leader  and  two  more  of  his  men  fell  in  the 
retreat,  and  that  was  the  last  time  the  Indians 
of  Utah  undertook  to  arrest  the  bandits. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  fight  that  the  rail 
road  was  opened,  and  the  gang  determined  to 
enter  upon  the  more  romantic  business  of  train 
robbing. 

The  first  two  or  three  attempts  made  by  the 
Utah  gang  to  hold  up  the  midnight  express  had 
resulted  to  their  embarrassment. 


THE    WAHSATCH  BAND   OF  BANDITS      2OI 

Once  the  air  had  failed  to  work,  and  at 
another  time  a  desperate  cowboy  who  hap 
pened  to  be  among  the  passengers,  disputed 
the  territory,  and  put  the  bandits  to  flight. 
Another  such  water  haul  would  bring  about 
the  leader's  impeachment,  and  that  distin 
guished  individual  determined  to  re-establish 
himself  in  the  confidence  and  esteem  of  his 
companions. 

Solitude,  about  as  desolate  a  spot  as  there  is 
on  the  American  continent,  was  selected  as  the 
proper  place  to  rob  the  train. 

There  was  not  a  house  at  that  station ;  only 
a  solitary  switch  target  at  either  end  of  a  long 
and  lonely  side-track.  A  red  cotton  handker 
chief  soaked  in  bear's  oil  was  set  ablaze  as  the 
long  train,  with  two  engines,  came  roaring 
down  the  desert.  Instead  of  swinging  the 
torch  steadily  back  and  forth  across  the  track, 
the  amateur  flagman  allowed  the  light  to  bob 
about  in  an  awkward,  unseemly  manner  that 
caused  the  man  on  the  leading  locomotive  to 
mistrust  the  "token." 

He  blew  his  whistle  long  and  loud,  ending 
with  the  two  familiar  "toot-toots,"  in  answer 


202  FRONTIER   STORIES 

to  the  signal  and  shut  off.  The  waiting  rob 
bers  hastily  put  out  the  torch  as  the  train  came 
on,  but  instead  of  applying  the  air  which  was 
his  business,  the  leading  engineer  (sotto  voce) 
sounded  "  Off  brake,"  and  opened  up  again. 
Before  the  bewildered  robbers  could  realize 
what  had  happened  the  train,  the  speed  of 
which  had  scarcely  slackened,  went  thunder 
ing  by. 

Just  what  had  been  avoided  by  the  sagacity 
of  the  daring  engineer  might  have  remained 
a  secret  had  not  the  baffled  bandits  been  so 
indiscreet  as  to  send  a  shower  of  bullets  into 
the  rear  car  of  the  flying  train. 

It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  run  by  a  stop 
signal,  but  whatever  succeeds  is  successful,  and 
the  wisdom  of  the  engineer's  action  was  not 
questioned,  so  far  as  we  know,  by  any  of  the 
railway  officials.  Indeed,  the  same  trick  has 
been  worked  more  than  once  since.  It  was 
done  very  successfully  in  the  lone  cut  on  the 
Lake  Shore  Road  only  a  year  or  two  ago,  but 
it  is  not  safe  to  try  it  too  often  with  the  same 
gang. 

That  night,  when  the  band  had  retired  to  a 


THE    WAHSATCH  BAND  OF  BANDITS      203 


safe  place  among  the  hills  over  against  the 
range,  they  held  an  important  meeting. 

Manifestly,  the  leader  did  not  know  his 
business,  and  his  resignation  was  called  for ;  he 
refused  to  surrender,  and  the  gang  voted  to 
disband.  He  had  been  a  poor  provider  at 
best.  The  gang  breakfasted  lightly,  lunched 
lighter  still,  and  in  the  twilight  stole  away. 
Only  one  man  remained  loyal  to  the  old 
leader,  and  while  the  others  headed  for  the 
hills  these  desperadoes  rode  back  to  Solitude. 

At  a  flag  station  they  robbed  a  section  house, 
secured  a  red  light  and  a  spike  maul,  and 
determined  to  take  one  more  fall  out  of  the 
midnight  express. 

It  was  Ed  Maloney's  run  out  that  night,  and 
when  he  armed  himself  with  a  brand  new  six- 
shooter  the  trainmen  gave  him  the  laugh.  The 
trainmaster  said  something  about  locking  an 
empty  barn,  but  Maloney  took  the  gun,  shoved 
it  into  the  bosom  of  his  engine  jacket,  and 
pulled  out  for  Grand  Junction. 

Almost  every  engineer  has  his  hobby,  and 
Maloney's  specialty  was  the  book  of  rules,  a 
small  volume  printed  by  the  company  for  the 


2O4  FRONTIER   STORIES 

guidance  of  its  employees.  If  he  wanted  to 
clean  a  headlight  or  take  a  pill  he  would  first 
consult  the  book,  and,  if  he  failed  to  find  any 
thing  printed  on  that  subject,  he  would  then 
proceed,  deliberately,  to  do  the  very  best  he 
could  without  instructions. 

"  It  is  much  better,"  he  used  to  say,  "  to 
rely  on  a  good  book  than  a  bad  memory."  He 
had  often  declared  to  his  fireman  that  he  ex 
pected  that  little  book  to  save  his  life  some 
day. 

However,  upon  this  particular  occasion  he 
elected  to  fortify  himself  with  a  "  forty- five," 
regardless  of  what  the  trainmen  might  think 
about  it. 

Finally,  there  was  a  long,  mournful  blast  of 
the  whistle,  and  when  the  sound  had  died 
away  in  the  desert,  the  conductor  picked  up 
his  white  light,  said  "  Solitude,"  and  stepped 
out  on  the  rear  platform.  Three  or  four  men 
followed  him,  but  all  they  could  see  was  the 
dripping  railing,  the  chain  across  the  rear  end 
of  the  car,  the  wet  bell-rope  fastened  to  the 
chain,  and  the  darkness  closing  rapidly  around 
them. 


THE    WAHSATCH  BAND   OF  BANDITS      205 

But  what  Maloney  saw  would  have  turned 
their  hair  gray.  It  was  a  regulation  red  light, 
but  it  was  not  being  handled  by  a  car  hand, 
and  Maloney  determined  to  disregard  it.  At 
any  other  time  he  would  have  stopped,  but  a 
precedent  had  been  established.  An  engineer 
had  run  past  a  signal  at  this  very  siding  the 
night  before,  and  had  been  voted  a  great  head ; 
so  Maloney  only  whistled,  looked  sharp  and 
let  them  go. 

The  robbers  had  expected  this,  and  that  is 
why  they  had  broken  the  switch  bridle  and 
opened  the  switch  at  the  far  end  of  the  siding. 
Maloney  half  expected  this,  and  the  moment 
his  headlight  shone  upon  the  leaning  target  he 
shut  off,  reversed  and  applied  the  air-brakes, 
full  upon  the  whirring  wheels. 

A  moment  later  the  big,  black  engine  shot 
off  in  the  desert,  turned  half  over  on  her  left 
side,  caught  the  fireman  and  crushed  him  to 
death.  Maloney,  thrown  through  the  cab  win 
dow,  floundered  in  the  adobe  mud  for  a  few 
seconds,  and  was  on  his  feet  again.  So  well 
had  he  performed  his  duty  that  all  the  cars 
except  the  mail,  express,  and  smoker,  remained 


2O6  FRONTIER  STORIES 

upon  the  rail.  The  express  car  was  what  the 
robbers  wanted,  but  it  was  driven  high  up  on 
the  mail  car,  which  was  resting  on  the  tail  of 
the  tank.  Maloney,  boiling  with  rage,  felt  for 
his  book  of  rules.  It  was  there  all  right,  but 
there  was  no  light  to  read  by,  and  like  enough 
there  was  no  rule  to  cover  urgent  emergencies, 
such  as  now  confronted  him. 

The  only  rule  he  could  call  to  mind  was  the 
one  at  the  bottom  of  the  time  card,  "  In  case 
of  doubt,  take  the  safe  side,"  and  Maloney  felt 
for  his  gun.  In  the  general  confusion  it  had 
dropped  down  into  his  overalls,  but  he  fished 
it  out  and  approached  the  wreck.  The  oil  box 
in  which  the  supplies  were  carried,  had  been 
jarred  loose  and  driven  up  against  the  furnace 
door.  When  it  had  been  there  a  few  seconds 
the  oil  ignited,  and  instantly  the  whole  interior 
of  the  wrecked  engine  cab  was  aflame.  When 
the  flash  came  it  showed  Maloney  face  to  face 
with  the  two  robbers.  Being  quick  and  cool, 
the  engineer  raised  his  revolver  and  blazed  away 
at  one  of  the  men,  and  the  robber  chief  was 
left  without  a  follower.  But,  even  as  Maloney 
pressed  the  trigger,  the  desperado  held  his  own 


THE    IVAHSATCH  BAND   OF  BANDITS      207 

gun  close  to  the  engineer's  breast  and  let  go. 
The  conductor  and  passengers  who  were  now 
hurrying  up  from  the  rear,  saw  the  murderous 
weapon  pointed  straight  at  Maloney's  heart  and 
made  no  doubt  but  that  he  would  be  dead  in 
an  instant.  But  when  the  gun  went  off  the 
big  engineer  only  staggered,  clapped  his  left 
hand  over  his  heart,  and  blazed  away  at  the 
robber.  The  spectacle  of  a  man  shot  through 
the  heart  still  showing  fight  seemed  to  fill  the 
bandit  with  terror,  and  being  a  coward,  as 
many  of  these  fellows  are,  he  turned  and  dashed 
away  into  the  darkness,  while  Maloney  still 
holding  his  hand  to  his  left  breast,  sent  stray 
bullets  over  the  desert  where  the  robber  ran. 

In  the  glare  of  the  light  Maloney  opened  his 
shirt  to  look  for  the  bullet  hole,  and  there  was 
only  a  big  red  spot  over  his  heart.  Closing 
his  shirt  he  examined  his  jumper,  pulled  his 
book  of  rules  out,  and  found  a  deep  furrow 
ploughed  across  the  cover. 

"That  did  the  business,"  said  the  engineer, 
as  the  conductor  approached.  "  I  told  you 
that  book  would  be  the  saving  of  my  life  some 
day."  And  then  they  started  to  put  out  the  fire. 


OTantatoan&a 


WANTAWANDA. 

A  BOUT  the  middle  of  the  first  half  of  the 
^~*  present  century  an  English  captain,  named 
Stuart,  came  to  America  to  see  the  show. 

Like  most  of  his  countrymen  he  wanted  to 
get  right  out  on  the  ragged  reef  of  civilization, 
hang  over  the  edge,  and  look  down  into  the 
unknown.  At  St.  Louis  he  fell  in  with  Fitz- 
patrick,  a  trapper,  who  was  heading  for  the 
Yellowstone  country  with  a  goodly  company  of 
fur  catchers.  The  Englishman  was  an  enthu 
siastic  sportsman  and  by  the  time  they  had 
reached  the  Rocky  Mountains  he  was  thor 
oughly  convinced  that  this  was  the  wildest  and 
woolliest,  biggest  and  bulliest  country  then  un 
mapped.  When  they  paused  to  rest,  well  up 
in  the  Rockies,  he  said  he  had  seen  a  lot  of 
fun.  He  had  fought  a  wounded  buffalo  bull 
with  a  pistol,  and  had  killed  a  grizzly  bear  with 
a  bowie ;  but  he  was  now  about  to  figure 


212  FRONTIER   STORIES 

in  fights  that  would  make  him  forget  these 
things. 

The  party  fell  in  with  a  band  of  Cheyennes 
who  were  encamped  on  the  Big  Horn,  not  far 
from  a  band  of  Sioux,  with  which  tribe  the 
Cheyennes  happened  to  be  upon  calling  terms 
at  the  moment. 

Fitzpatrick,  the  captain  of  the  fur-catchers, 
was  at  home  with  the  Indians  because  of  the 
crimson  cloth,  red  liquor,  and  other  things  that 
he  would  swap  for  the  robes  and  peltry  of  the 
red  men. 

While  the  trappers  showed  their  trinkets  to 
the  bucks  and  does  of  the  Cheyennes  a  scout 
came  leaping  into  the  light  of  the  camp  fire  to 
say  that  a  small  band  of  Crows  (sparrow-hawks) 
had  come  up  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening 
and  encamped  in  a  canon  midway  between  the 
Cheyenne  and  the  Sioux  camp. 

"Hoop-a-la  !  "  said  the  Cheyenne  chief,  twirl 
ing  his  battle-axe;  "  me  heap  hate  a  Crow  for 
he  fight  only  Ingin,  like  a  white  man.  Maby- 
so  me  ketch  'em  Medicine  Calf,  the  curly- 
haired  Crow.  Hoop-a-la  !  " 

To  avoid  the  risk  of  being  surprised  them- 


IV A  NT  A  WA  NDA  213 


selves,  the  Cheyennes  put  out  their  fires  and 
rolled  up  in  their  blankets  to  sleep,  so  as  to  be 
fresh  and  frisky  at  the  matine'e  that  would  open 
with  the  waking  morn. 

The  Cheyenne  chief  sent  for  Fitzpatrick. 
"  Will  the  white  chief  join  me  in  the  sport  at 
the  other  end  of  the  sleep?  "  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  the  trapper;  "the  Crows  are  our 
friends." 

"  So  they  are  !  so  they  are  !  "  said  the  Indian  ; 
"  and  that 's  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  want  to 
rub  'em  out ;  but  since  you  are  so  fond  of  them 
you  may  go  and  sleep  with  'em  and  I'll  rub  you 
out,  and  all  these  white-livered  coyotes  that 
yelp  at  your  heels.  Hoop-a-la  !  Ingin  git  a 
good  many  fun  this  grass  !  "  And  the  Chey 
enne  jumped  up  and  cracked  his  moccasins 
together  so  sharply  that  the  beads  fairly  rattled. 

Fitzpatrick  said  he  would  see  about  it  and 
went  out. 

In  the  camp  of  the  palefaces  Fitzpatrick 
explained  the  situation.  Some  of  the  men  said 
the  Crows  were  only  Indians,  and  they  might  as 
well  have  fun  with  them  as  not ;  others  said 
the  Crows  had  always  been  the  friends  of  the 


214  FRONTIER   STORIES 

white  trappers,  and  had  helped  them  fight  the 
bloody  Blackfeet  upon  countless  occasions ;  but 
a  majority  being  in  favor  of  going,  it  was  so  de 
cided.  Only  the  obstinate  Englishman  held 
out.  As  a  matter  of  principle  he  objected  to 
being  pushed  into  a  fight  that  was  not  his. 
Even  if  the  Crows  had  been  no  better  than  the 
Sioux  or  the  Cheyennes  he  could  not  see  why 
the  trappers  should  go  out  against  them  just  to 
please  this  pagan.  But  back  of  all  this  there 
was  a  story, — a  very  short  story,  to  be  sure, 
but  long  enough  and  strong  enough  to  hold 
on  to  the  honor  of  an  Englishman. 

At  Fort  Cass,  where  the  Crows  did  their  trad 
ing,  a  drunken  Crow  had  attempted  to  steal  a 
handsome  rifle  from  the  captain,  but  the  watch 
ful  officer  had  caught  him  in  the  act,  followed 
him  into  his  lodge,  levelled  his  pistol,  and 
snapped  a  cap  in  the  Crow's  face ;  whereupon 
the  Indian  swung  his  battle-axe  for  the  English 
man's  head,  and  must  have  killed  him  had  not 
Wantawanda,  a  Crow  woman,  thrown  a  shawl 
between  the  hatchet  and  the  Englishman's  head, 
causing  the  weapon  to  glance.  Seeing  the  In 
dian  enter  the  lodge,  followed  by  the  white  man, 


WA  NT  A  WA  NDA  2  I  5 

she  followed  also,  and  so  saved  the  English 
man's  life.  He  knew  that  she  had  done  this, 
and  upon  the  impulse  of  the  moment  seized 
her  by  both  hands  and  tried  to  thank  her,  but 
she  could  not  understand.  She  only  knew  that 
he  was  splendid,  and  that  her  wild  heart  beat 
wildly  in  her  sun-browned  breast  as  he  held  her 
hands.  Presently,  when  he  released  her,  she 
picked  up  the  rifle  that  had  been  abandoned 
by  the  Indian,  placed  it  in  the  captain's  hands, 
and  left  the  lodge. 

The  woman  was  sister  to  Medicine  Calf,  the 
curly-haired  Crow  chief,  who  was  not  a  Crow 
any  more  than  he  was  a  meadow  lark,  but  the 
Crows  did  not  know  this. 

Very  naturally,  now,  the  Englishman's  mind 
wandered  back  to  the  banks  of  the  Yellowstone 
and  to  Wantawanda,  who  had  saved  his  life. 

The  thing  to  do,  he  said,  was  to  go,  if  the 
chief  said  go.  Go  and  fight,  and  die,  if  neces 
sary,  with  the  friends  of  the  white  man. 

He  was  so  earnest,  and  there  was  so  much 
truth  and  justice  in  what  he  said,  that  it  was 
finally  so  determined  ;  but  when  they  would  go 
they  found  that  the  Cheyennes  had  taken  all 


2l6  FRONTIER   STORIES 

their  horses  and  goods  and  carried  them  away 
for  safe  keeping. 

"  Ho\v  is  this?"  asked  Fitzpatrick,  entering 
the  lodge  of  the  Cheyenne  chief.  "  You  bid  us 
to  go,  and  when  we  would  depart  we  find  all 
our  horses  and  goods  are  gone." 

"It's  only  a  little  way,"  said  the  chief; 
"  can't  you  walk?  " 

"  Yes,  but  we  want  our  horses." 

"  You  '11  have  wings,  if  white  men  tell  the 
truth,  after  this  sleep,"  said  the  Cheyenne,  with 
a  quizzical  look,  which  was  his  nearest  approach 
to  a  smile.  "  My  squaws  want  your  crimson 
cloth,  my  young  men  your  weapons,  and  I  — 
well,  I  can  use  your  fire-water." 

"  You  '11  want  ice  water  in  an  hour  from  now, 
you  old  thief,"  said  the  trapper,  levelling  his  rifle 
at  the  Indian,  "  if  you  don't  trot  out  my  horses  !  " 

"  Come,"  said  the  Cheyenne,  without  moving 
from  the  robe  upon  which  he  sat  smoking,  "  this 
is  not  a  thing  to  be  settled  by  you  and  me.  The 
Crows  are  our  enemies  ;  you  say  they  are  your 
friends ;  that  makes  you  the  enemy  of  the 
Cheyenne,  to  be  killed  by  my  braves  like  any 
other  enemy.  I  have  sent  a  messenger  to  the 


W 'A  NT  A  WA  NBA  2  I  7 

camp  of  the  Sioux.  They  will  come  to  the 
canon  from  the  sunrise,  so,"  and  he  drew  a 
half  circle  on  the  sand  floor  —  "  and  we  will 
come  from  the  sunset,  so ;  "  and  the  circle  was 
complete. 

"  In  there  will  be  the  Crows  with  the  curly- 
haired  chief,  who  is  neither  a  white  man  nor  a 
red  man,  but  a  bad  black  man  from  the  hot 
country,  who  kills  Cheyennes,  Sioux,  Black- 
feet,  and  As-ne-boines';  for  the  fun  of  it." 

"  The  Medicine  Calf  is  a  white  man,"  said 
Fitzpatrick,  "  and  a  great  brave." 

"  So  ?  And  does  the  white  chief  here,  my 
guest  and  brother,  take  the  scalp  of  the  In- 
gin?  The  lodge  of  the  Medicine  Calf  is  dark 
with  the  scalps  of  my  people.  He  knows  not 
the  God  of  the  white  man,  but  goes  after  his 
medicine,  dances  the  scalp  dance,  and  marries 
much  Ingin,  yet  he  is  not  of  them.  They  say 
his  medicine  is  heap  strong  —  that  he  can't  be 
killed — we  shall  see." 

"The  Medicine  Calf  is  not  of  this  band," 
said  the  trapper,  resting  his  rifle  in  the  curve  of 
his  left  arm.  "  This  band  is  led  by  the  Little 
Gray  Bull." 


2l8  FRONTIER   STORIES 


"  So  !  Then  we  shall  have  the  hide  of  the 
Little  Gray  Bull." 

"Come,  will  you  have  my  horses  brought?" 
asked  the  trapper,  tapping  his  rifle  with  his 
rough  right  hand. 

The  Cheyenne  removed  his  pipe,  swept  the 
air  in  a  circle,  and  said :  "  That  would  not  save 
your  scalp,  nor  the  scalps  of  your  men,  nor  of 
your  friends,  the  Crows.  All  about  are  the 
Cheyenne  braves  guardmg  every  trail.  You 
cannot  escape.  They  would  come  here  and 
kill  you  now,  only  you  are  my  guest.  They 
have  agreed,  if  you  go  with  us  and  fight  the 
Crows,  not  to  kill  you,  but  if  you  refuse,  or  if 
you  should  so  far  forget  your  manners  as  to 
murder  your  host,  then  you  shall  all  die." 

Fitzpatrick  saw  the  folly  of  resistance,  and  so 
bowed  to  the  pagan  and  backed  out,  for  the 
pagan  had  a  gun. 

When  the  matter  had  been  discussed  in  the 
camp  of  the  trappers  it  was  decided  that  they 
should  accompany  the  Cheyennes  with  as  much 
cheerfulness  and  sangfroid  as  they  could  com 
mand,  but  when  it  came  to  the  fight  they  would 
all  shoot  high.  Later,  if  they  kept  their  hair, 


WANT  A  W 'A  NDA  2  1 9 


Fitzpatrick  would  explain  the  whole  affair  to  the 
mulatto  chief,  Medicine  Calf,  and  all  would  be 
well. 

Still  the  Englishman  demurred.  There  were 
three  or  four  others  in  the  party,  who  were  out 
merely  for  pleasure,  but  who  had  been  given  to 
understand  that  in  all  matters  affecting  the  safety 
of  the  party  they  would  be  expected  to  obey 
the  captain,  Fitzpatrick,  without  a  murmur. 
A  trapper's  outfit  in  the  2o's  and  30*3  was  an 
absolute  monarchy,  and  the  captain  of  the 
company  was  the  monarch.  This  fact  was 
impressed  upon  the  Englishman  by  Dr.  Har 
rison  (a  son  of  "Tippecanoe  "),  and  finally  the 
Briton  bowed  to  the  inevitable. 

The  night  was  nearly  done  when  the  white 
men  rolled  up  their  blankets  —  about  all  they 
possessed  now  —  and  fell  asleep. 

Long  before  day  the  captain  of  the  trappers 
was  summoned  before  the  chief,  who  demanded 
to  know  the  decision  of  the  white  men. 

"We  will  follow  the  great  chief,"  said  the 
trapper,  submissively. 

"  Good  !  only  you  must  march  in  front  to  the 
canon,  then  fall  in  the  middle.  We  would  not 


22O  FRONTIER    STORIES 

deprive  our  white  brothers  of  the  glory  of  the 
battle." 

And  so  they  went,  the  whites  in  front,  fol 
lowed  by  all  the  warriors  and  braves  of  the 
Cheyenne  band.  At  dawn  they  stood  upon 
the  sloping  wall  of  the  wide,  shallow  canon, 
the  whites  in  the  centre,  the  Indians  on  either 
flank.  As  the  day  began  to  dawn  they  could 
discern  the  Sioux  outlined  upon  the  opposite 
bluff.  Down  in  the  quiet  vale  the  Crows  still 
slept,  rolled  in  their  blankets,  nor  dreamed  of 
danger.  A  more  quiet,  peaceful  scene  could 
not  be  imagined.  It  had  been  raining  some 
where  afar  off  toward  the  Oregon  coast,  and  the 
far  we'stern  sky  was  covered  with  a  flaky  veil, 
through  which  the  blue  began  to  show,  lit  by 
the  light  of  breaking  morn.  Of  a  sudden  the 
Crows  began  to  spring  up.  The  enemy  had 
been  discovered.  The  water,  racing  down  the 
canon  after  countless  cloud  bursts,  had  planed  a 
groove  in  the  bottom  of  the  narrow  vale,  and  in 
this  furrow  the  Crows  placed  themselves  to 
receive  the  shock  of  the  charge.  At  a  signal 
from  the  Cheyenne  chief  the  battle  began. 

The  chief  in   command  of  the  massacre  (it 


WA  N  TA  WA  NDA  221 

was  not  a  battle,  for  the  Crows  were  out-num 
bered  fifty  to  one)  soon  discovered  that  the 
range  was  too  long.  The  bullets  missed  the 
mark,  for  the  Indians  at  that  time  were  only 
amateur  marksmen,  and  all  the  arrows  fell 
short.  He  ordered  his  braves  to  charge,  and 
the  scalp-hungry  Cheyennes  began  to  slide  and 
fall  down  the  hill,  while  the  Sioux  followed  the 
example  of  their  allies.  The  white  men,  how 
ever,  held  back,  only  advancing  far  enough  to 
avoid  punishment  at  the  hands  of  the  Chey 
ennes.  Seeing  themselves  surrounded  and  com 
pletely  cut  off,  the  Crows  began  that  stubborn 
stand  that  is  invariably  made  by  men  who  give 
no  quarter  and  ask  none. 

As  the  enemy  advanced  from  either  side,  the 
Crows,  who  were  great  warriors,  and  who,  owing 
to  their  close  relations  with  the  whites,  always 
had  an  abundance  of  ammunition  and  good 
guns,  delivered  a  killing  fire,  causing  their  ene 
mies  to  fall  back  to  the  foot  of  the  bluffs.  Two 
or  three  Cheyennes  and  as  many  Sioux  had 
been  killed  and  carried  to  the  rear.  A  number 
of  warriors  had  received  severe  and  painful 
wounds,  causing  all  of  them  to  thirst  for  the 


222  FRONTIER   STORIES 

blood  of  the  Crows.  Another  charge  was  or 
dered.  This  time  the  two  red  lines  of  nearly 
naked  warriors  came  nearer  to  the  narrow  gully 
from  which  the  Crows  were  sending  forth  a 
sweeping  rain  of  lead.  Many  a  Crow  was  seen 
by  the  whites,  who  had  remained  upon  the  high 
ground,  to  fall  from  the  edge  of  the  ditch  as  the 
Cheyennes  advanced.  After  five  or  ten  minutes 
the  Indians  broke  again,  picking  up  their  dead 
and  wounded  on  the  way  back  to  the  bluffs. 
The  whites  were  forgotten  now,  so  wild  had  the 
Indians  become.  A  dozen  Cheyennes  lay  dead, 
and  the  Sioux  had  suffered  severely.  Again 
they  charged.  This  time  they  came  quite  near 
to  the  trench  that  was  rapidly  filling  with  the 
bodies  of  the  brave  band,  while  along  the  bed 
of  the  dry  arroyo  a  red  rill  rippled  from  the 
drifted  dead.  Ever  in  the  wildest  of  the  fight, 
the  waving  feathers  of  the  Little  Gray  Bull, 
leader  of  the  band,  could  be  seen,  first  upon 
one  side  and  then  upon  the  other  side  of  the 
trench,  fighting  and  calling  to  the  enemy  to 
come  on.  Gradually  the  resistance  of  the 
Crows  grew  weaker  and  weaker,  and  finally 
ceased.  Again  from  the  death-trench  came 


WANTAIVANDA 


223 


the  Little  Gray  Bull,  foaming  and  bellowing, 
and  daring  the  Indians  to  come  and  kill  him. 
The  spectacle  of  this  brave,  who  seemed  to  bear 
a  charmed  life,  so  terrified  the  Sioux  that  they 
fled  by  the  hundred  as  he  advanced.  Turning, 
the  Bull  saw  that  the  Cheyennes  still  held  their 
ground  near  the  trench.  Leaping  over  his 
dead  comrades  the  chief  advanced  towards  the 
Cheyennes,  waving  his  battle-axe,  and  to  the 
amazement  of  the  whites,  they  too  fled.  They 
called  to  the  Crow  to  go,  that  he  was  too  great 
a  brave  to  be  killed.  "  My  heart  is  too  full  of 
hate  for  you,"  said  he,  "  to  accept  your  mercy. 
My  people  will  take  vengeance  upon  you  and  your 
friends.  Come,  you  cowards,  and  kill  the  Little 
Gray  Bull.  He  has  ridden  your  horses  until  he  is 
tired  of  riding.  Your  squaws  are  his  slaves  ;  his 
lodge  is  darkened  by  the  scalps  of  the  Cheyennes." 

Again  he  charged  and  the  Cheyennes  crouched 
still  closer  to  the  cliff. 

At  this  juncture,  while  the  whites  were  admir 
ing,  and  the  Indians  dreading,  the  daring  brave, 
a  half-breed  Snake,  a  horse-herder,  took  aim 
and  shot  the  Little  Gray  Bull  dead. 

"  There,"  said  the  half  savage,  who  is  usually 


224  FRONTIER   STORIES 

worse  than  a  whole  savage,  "  we  can  go  to 
breakfast." 

In  the  trench  all  were  dead  except  two  Crow 
boys,  —  moccasin-bearers.  These  the  Chey- 
ennes  made  prisoners,  and  after  dividing  the 
gruesome  trophies  of  war  with  the  Sioux,  the 
Cheyennes,  accompanied  by  the  whites,  started 
back  to  camp. 

As  they  rode  along,  the  Crow  boys  sitting  be 
hind  their  respective  captors,  the  little  savages 
held  quiet  converse  by  nod  and  sign.  Pres 
ently  each  drew  a  knife  and  plunged  it  into 
his  captor,  killing  both  instantly.  The  startled 
braves  turned  upon  the  boys  and  hacked  them 
to  pieces.  This  they  had  expected,  no  doubt, 
but  chose  death,  and  this  measure  of  revenge, 
rather  than  to  become  slaves  of,  or  warriors  with, 
the  Cheyennes. 

Upon  reaching  camp  the  Cheyenne  chief  re 
turned  all  the  horses  and  other  property  to  the 
trappers,  who,  glad  to  be  off,  set  out  for  the 
Crow  country.  When  they  had  arrived  within 
a  few  miles  of  the  Crow  village  Fitzpatrick  sent 
a  messenger,  asking  the  curly-haired  chief  to 
visit  him.  The  Medicine  Calf  said  he  was  too 


WANTAWANDA  22$ 

busy,  but  invited  the  trapper  to  come  to  the  vil 
lage.  When  the  trappers  had  made  camp  near 
the  Crows  the  chief  called  upon  them,  and  in 
the  evening  of  the  same  day  Fitzpatrick  and  his 
companions  returned  the  call.  The  splendid 
horses  that  the  trappers  rode  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  Crows  at  once,  for  they  were 
great  horse  thieves  as  well  as  great  warriors. 

When  the  rest  had  retired  to  the  camp  of  the 
trappers  without  the  village  Fitzpatrick  remained 
to  talk  with  the  Medicine  Calf,  whom  he  had 
known  in  St.  Louis,  where  he  had  lived  before 
he  became  a  Crow.  Gradually  now  the  trap 
per  told  the  chief  of  the  massacre  of  the  band 
of  Crows,  and  of  the  bravery  of  the  Little  Gray 
Bull.  He  did  not,  however,  tell  how  one  of  his 
half-breed  herders  had  killed  the  Bull  in  order 
that  he  might  go  to  breakfast. 

The  Medicine  Calf  was  in  a  rage  in  a  mo 
ment.  He  had  lived  so  long  with  the  Crows, 
had  lied  so  luminously  to  them  about  his  "  medi 
cine,"  and  the  awful  -pull  of  the  rabbit's  foot 
that  he  wore  about  his  black  neck,  that  he  had 
actually  come  to  take  himself  seriously  and  to 
believe  the  things  he  said. 
15 


226  FRONTIER   STORIES 

When  the  trapper  had  left  the  hogan  of  the 
chief  a  Crow  warrior  slid  noiselessly  into  the 
awful  presence. 

"  Uh  !  can  the  Medicine  Calf  sleep  when  the 
enemy  is  among  us  ?  "  asked  the  Indian,  seeing 
the  Calf  rolled  up  in  his  blankets. 

"What  enemy?  " 

"  The  paleface  —  the  enemy  that  pretends  to 
be  a  friend.  One  of  them  rides  my  father's 
horse,  which  he  could  only  do  after  killing  the 
Little  Gray  Bull." 

"They  are  my  friends,"  said  the  Medicine 
Calf;  "  be  good  to  them." 

With  a  grunt  that  showed  disgust  the  young 
Indian  strode  out  to  spread  the  story  of  his  dis 
covery  throughout  the  village. 

No  doubt  the  Medicine  Calf  smelled  trouble 
here,  but  the  negro  that  was  in  him  made  him 
drowsy,  the  white  man  that  was  in  him  (his 
father  was  French)  made  him  wish  the  rival 
fur  catchers  away,  while  the  savage  that  he  had 
acquired  made  him  more  or  less  indifferent 
when  it  was  only  a  question  of  the  life  or  death 
of  a  score  or  so  of  the  two-legged  animals  of  the 
earth ;  so  he  rolled  over  and  fell  asleep. 


W 'A  N  TA  WA  NDA  22*] 

From  a  half-breed  in  the  trapper's  outfit  one 
of  the  squaws  had  the  story  of  the  slaughter,  but 
nothing  of  the  part  the  whites  had  taken,  and 
when  that  story  met  and  got  mixed  up  with  the 
horse  story  the  village  began  to  boil.  Indians 
were  dodging  from  lodge  to  lodge.  The  son  of 
the  Little  Gray  Bull  took  command,  keeping 
the  warriors  away  from  the  chief's  lodge,  and 
by  midnight  had  everything  arranged  for  the 
massacre  of  Fitzpatrick  and  his  party.  They 
were  to  take  no  guns.  In  order  that  the  peace 
ful  slumbers  of  the  Medicine  Calf  might  not  be 
broken,  they  had  arranged  to  steal  upon  the 
unsuspecting  trappers  and  tomahawk  them  while 
they  slept. 

In  a  lodge  not  far  from  the  Medicine  Calf  an 
interpreter  and  clerk  for  the  American  fur  com 
pany,  named  Winters,  was  sleeping  that  night. 
Shortly  after  midnight  he  heard  some  one  creep 
ing  into  his  tent.  It  was  an  Indian  woman. 
"  Get  up,"  said  she,  "  the  Crows  are  going  to 
kill  all  the  white  people  that  are  camped  in  the 
canon." 

The  interpreter  leaped  from  his  couch, 
when  the  woman,  knowing  what  he  would  do, 


225  FRONTIER   STORIES 

threw  her  arms  about  him  -and  hugged  him 
down. 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  he  hissed. 

"Where?" 

"To  warn  the  Medicine  Calf  and  save  the 
people." 

"  But  you  cannot.  They  are  guarding  him 
and  you.  Give  me  paper-talk.  I  cannot  speak 
with  the  white  people,  but  give  me  paper- 
talk  and  I  will  put  it  into  the  hand  of  the  tall 
brave  who  rides  the  big  white  horse." 

"  How  can  you  leave  the  village  and  reach  the 
camp?  " 

"  I  '11  find  the  way,"  she  said,  holding  out  her 
hand  eagerly  for  the  paper-talk  that  should  warn 
and  save  the  whites. 

Believing  this  to  be  the  surest  and  quickest 
way  of  reaching  the  trappers,  the  interpreter, 
leaning  from  the  door  of  his  tent,  wrote  by  the 
dim  light  of  the  stars  :  "  Fly  for  your  lives,  all 
of  you  —  the  Crows,"  and  signed  his  name, 
which  was  well  known  to  the  captain  of  the 
trappers. 

Noiselessly  as  a  moccasin-footed  rabbit  moves 
over  the  face  of  a  ledge  the  Indian  girl  stole 


WA  NTA  WA  NDA  22() 

.from  the  tent,  and  when  she  had  left  the  village 
behind  her  sped  through  the  forest  like  a  fright 
ened  deer. 

The  whites  were  all  asleep,  and  being  in  the 
Crow  country,  where  all  whites  were  consid 
ered  safe,  had  no  guards  out.  Already  their 
horses  had  been  rounded  up  and  led  away  by 
the  Crows.  The  Indian  stole  silently  into  the 
camp.  Near  a  dim  fire  she  found  the  English 
captain  and  touched  his  hand.  Immediately 
he  sat  up.  "  Who  's  here?  "  he  whispered,  for 
the  touch  of  the  woman's  hand  told  him  that  it 
was  the  hand  of  a  friend.  "  Wantawanda,"  said 
the  girl,  pressing  the  paper  into  his  hand. 
Holding  the  letter  close  to  a  coal  the  white 
man  read  what  was  written  there.  A  cold 
wave  swept  over  him  as  he  got  to  his  feet,  just 
in  time  to  see  the  faithful  Indian,  who  had  once 
before  saved  his  life,  leap  into  the  black  forest 
on  her  way  back  to  the  village.  Instantly  the 
captain  of  the  outfit  was  notified,  the  camp  was 
awakened,  the  fires  smothered  out,  and  every 
man  ready  to  mount  his  horse.  Alas !  no 
horses  could  be  found  !  This  was  no  time  to 
try  to  find  them.  Every  moment's  delay  in- 


230 


FRONTIER   STORIES 


creased  the  danger,  and  if  the  Crows  should 
discover  them  trying  to  escape,  that  would 
mean  death  to  all  of  them.  Placing  himself 
at  the  head  of  the  little  company  of  thirty  or 
forty  men  Fiizpatrick  led  them  in  a  half-circle 
around  the  village  and  down  the  river. 

And  so,  when  the  son  of  the  Little  Gray  Bull, 
followed  by  his  band,  leaped  into  the  camp  of 
the  trappers,  they  hacked  and  chopped  into  the 
empty  blankets  that  had  been  abandoned  by  the 
white  men. 

In  a  little  while  they  found  the  trail,  but 
could  not  follow  it  in  the  forest.  Impatiently 
they  waited  for  the  dawn,  and  long  before  it 
was  light  enough  for  a  white  man  to  see  they 
were  hot  upon  the  trail  of  the  trappers. 

Hearing  a  great  noise  in  the  village,  the  Medi- 
icine  Calf  came  from  his  tent  and  asked  a  squaw 
what  the  racket  was  ail  about. 

"The  whites  have  all  been  killed,"  said  the 
woman  ;  "  did  n't  you  know  it?  " 

Now  the  white  man  that  was  in  the  curly- 
haired  chief  came  to  the  surface.  Hastening  to 
the  tent  of  the  interpreter  he  found  it  full  of 
Crows.  The  interpreter  said  he  had  wanted  to  go 


WA  N  TA  WA  NDA  2  3  I 

to  the  chief,  but  the  Indians  would  not  let  him. 
The  whites,  he  had  learned,  had  gone  down  the 
river,  followed  by  about  a  thousand  Indians. 

Suddenly  the  Medicine  Calf  became  wild. 
Part  of  this  might  have  been  for  the  benefit  of 
the  interpreter,  but  it  seemed  real  rage.  "  I  am 
mad!"  he  shouted  in  the  Crow  tongue,  leap 
ing  upon  his  war  horse.  "  The  Medicine  Calf 
goes  to  die  for  his  friends,  the  whites  !  "  and 
away  he  went,  followed  by  the  "  Dog  soldiers." 
Some  six  or  eight  miles  from  the  village  he 
overtook  the  Crows,  who  were  at  that  moment 
surrounding  the  trappers.  Dashing  through  the 
line  the  chief  rode  to  where  the  whites  were 
huddled  for  a  last  stand,  and  shouted  to  the 
Indians  to  stand  back.  With  all  his  bluster 
and  bravado,  his  love  for  the  spectacle  of 
Indian  warfare  and  the  wild  whoop  of  the 
slaughter,  this  more  than  half  white  man  was 
absolutely  indifferent  to  personal  danger.  It 
required  a  brave,  cool  man  to  face  these  sav 
ages,  who  were  thirsting  for  the  blood  of  the 
trappers,  whom  they  regarded  as  the  slayers  of 
their  brother-braves. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  the  little  band  of 


232  FRONTIER    STORIES 

palefaces  that  they  must  all  be  swept  away,  but 
by  deftly  touching  the  "Medicine  "  at  his  throat 
and  reminding  the  Crows  that  he  was  their 
great  chief,  that  these  men  were  his  guests, 
and  that  if  they  deserved  killing  there  was  no 
call  for  undue  haste,  he  held  them  back. 

In  the  meantime,  speaking  in  English  to  the 
whites,  he  bade  them  each  mount  behind  an 
Indian,  —  his  body  guard,  or  staff,  called  the 
"  Dog  soldiers,"  because  they  worshipped  dogs, 
having  crowded  about  to  protect  their  chief. 

All  the  whites  mounted  save  the  English 
captain.  "  I  '11  not  ride  behind  one  of  the 
thieves,"  said  he ;  and  then,  shaking  his  fist  at 
the  Medicine  Calf,  said  in  strong  English,  "  Any 
man  who  would  live  among  these  red  devils  is 
a  damned  rascal." 

This  so  enraged  the  Calf  that  he  would  have 
made  the  Englishman  suffer  for  his  rashness 
had  he  not  dreaded  the  consequences.  The 
interpreter  at  the  village  would  hear  of  it, 
though  all  the  trappers  perished  in  a  moment, 
and  it  would  be  hard  to  explain  away.  Besides, 
he  would  not  care  to  have  the  blood  of  so 
many  whites  upon  his  hands ;  so  he  let  it  pass. 


WANTAWANDA 


233 


Finally  the  Englishman,  rather  than  be  scalped, 
rode  back  to  the  village  with  the  rest. 

After  much  talk  the  chief  succeeded  in  hav 
ing  the  horses  and  other  property  restored  to 
the  whites,  except  the  horse  that  had  belonged 
to  the  Little  Gray  Bull  (which  they  had  brought 
from  the  Cheyennes),  the  fire-water  that  had 
evaporated,  and  the  red  cloth  that  the  squaws 
had  already  ripped  up  for  shawls  and  blankets. 

Again  the  little  army  of  fur-hunters,  adven 
turers,  and  sight-seeers,  set  out  for  more  con 
genial  communities,  followed,  that  night,  by  the 
son  of  the  dead  Bull  and  a  company  of  expert 
horse-thieves.  Two  sleeps  from  the  Crow  vil 
lage  they  came  upon  the  camp  of  the  trappers 
and  stole  every  hoof  of  their  stock,  and  left 
them  to  walk  out  of  the  land  of  the  Crows. 

After  months  of  wandering  in  the  wilds  of  the 
West  the  English  captain  reached  St.  Louis, 
where  he  bought  a  mile  of  beads,  a  few  acres 
of  crimson  cloth,  and  countless  other  trin 
kets,  and  forwarded  them  to  Fort  Cass,  for 
Wantawanda. 


Couple  o'  Captains; 


A   COUPLE   O1   CAPTAINS. 

"  TIMMINY  Christmas,"  groaned  Tom,  "how 

I      my  arm  aches  !  " 

"  Don't  think  o'  your  arm,"  said  Gene,  twist 
ing  in  his  blankets.  "  I  'd  take  your  wound  for 
the  prospect  of  promotion  that  hangs  over  your 
head." 

"  Be  quiet,"  said  Tom,  and  he  sighed  heavily. 

The  stars  were  burning  like  coals  of  fire  in 
the  blue  above  them,  and  all  about  the  winds 
were  breathing  in  the  sagebush.  The  two  boys 
had  been  in  battle  that  day  —  a  hot  fight  with 
the  Sioux  —  and  Tom  had  belabored  and 
larruped  a  wily  warrior  singlehanded  and 
alone  under  the  very  nose  of  the  Colonel,  and 
for  that  reason,  and  not  because  he  had  received 
a  slight  though  painful  wound  in  his  arm,  his 
comrade  Gene  argued  that  promotion  would 
come  to  Tom.  It  did  come,  and  still  another, 
and  in  less  than  a  month's  time  he  was  a 
captain. 


238  FRONTIER   STORIES 

Gene  was  a  big,  brave,  strong  youth,  and  it 
was  not  long  until  he,  too,  began  to  take  on 
markers  at  the  tops  of  his  shoulders.  Without 
any  of  that  invisible  something  commonly  called 
"  pull,"  both  boys  fought  themselves  up,  so  that 
at  the  end  of  the  five  years'  strife  with  the  Sioux 
they  were  captains  of  cavalry.  It  was  all  very 
exciting,  even  thrilling  at  times.  But  the  war 
ended  one  fine  day,  as  wars  will,  and  the  two 
captains  found  themselves  without  employment, 
and  one  of  them  at  least  without  tangible 
means  of  support.  The  disbanding  of  the  army 
had  thrown  some  thousands  of  men  suddenly 
upon  a  country  in  which  all  the  good  jobs 
seemed  to  be  filled. 

"  We  must  do  something,"  said  Tom. 

"Yes,"  assented  his  friend;  "we'll  have  to 
get  married  or  go  to  work  sooner  or  later,  I 
suppose." 

"  I  wish  we  could  get  into  something  to 
gether." 

"  Like  enough  if  we  did  get  in  together, 
they  'd  put  us  in  separate  cells,"  said  Gene. 
He  had  money  —  not  much  perhaps  —  but 
money,  and  parents  well-to-do,  and  could  af- 


A    COUPLE   0>   CAPTAINS  239 

ford  to  joke.  But  it  was  a  serious  matter  with 
Tom.  He  was  as  poor  as  a  Greek  and  as 
proud  as  a  Spaniard.  One  day  he  hailed  Gene 
with  a  happy  shout,  and  announced  that  he  had 
a  job  for  both,  where  they  could  work  together 
by  day  and  bunk  together  at  night. 

"So  it's  work,  is  it?"  asked  Gene,  looking 
his  friend  over. 

"  Well,  yes.  You  were  not  expecting  a  job 
stopping  balls  in  a  tennis  court,  were  you?  " 

"  Not  exactly ;  but  I  thought  we  were  going 
into  some  sort  of  business  together." 

"  This  is  business  —  good  business,  and  you 
wind  it  up  with  a  brake-chain  every  time  the 
whistle  blows." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Braking  on  the  Burlington." 

"W-h-at?" 

"  Braking  on  the  Burlington." 

Gene  smiled. 

The  Burlington  had  just  been  opened  as  far 
as  Omaha,  and  Ottumwa  was  only  a  small  set 
tlement.  Iowa  was  right  out  on  the  raw  edge 
of  the  wide,  wild  West.  The  Indians  were 
wrecking  stations  and  robbing  freight  cars,  and 


240  FRONTIER   STORIES 

a  flagman  three  cars  from  the  caboose  could  n't 
call  his  scalp  his  own. 

"Passenger  train,  I  presume?"  said  Gene, 
breaking  the  hush. 

"  Freight." 

"What?" 

"Freight." 

"  Say,  Tom,  you  're  crazy.  What  you  want 
to  throw  yourself  away  on  a  box  car  for?  It 
won't  do  —  not  for  me  —  it 's  preposterous  !  " 

"It  beats  walking." 

"  Perhaps,  but  we  have  n't  had  to  walk  yet. 
Think  of  it !  Society  column  of  the  Chicago 
'  Tribune,'  '  Captain  Smith  and  Captain  Jones 
are  braking  on  freight  out  of  Ottumwa.'  Come, 
Tom,  I  'm  not  broke  yet ;  besides,  you  are  too 
young  and  handsome  to  be  killed." 

"  Then  you  won't  go  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Gene,  and  he  commenced  to 
sing :  "  Don't  you  go,  Tommy,  don't  go ;  stay 
away,  Tommy,  don't  go." 

"  Well,  I  Ve  always  feared  it  would  come  to 
this  sooner  or  later,"  said  Tom.  He  held  out 
his  hand,  and  Gene  took  it. 

"  I  love  you,  Tommy,"  said  he;  "but  I  can't 


A    COUPLE   0'    CAPTAINS  241 

join  you  in  a  blue  jumper  and  go  skating  with 
you  over  the  icy  tops  of  rolling  box-cars." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Tom. 

"  Good-bye  !  God  be  good  to  you,  captain 
—  my  captain  !  " 

"The  same  to  you,"  called  Tom,  and  his 
friend  watched  him  wander  away  down  among 
the  cars  in  the  newly  railed  freight  yards. 

"  Ticket,"  called  the  conductor. 

The  man  was  reading. 

"Ticket,"  and  he  touched  the  man's  shoulder, 
and  the  man  looked  up. 

"  Why—  hel-lo,  Tom.     What  you  doing?  " 

"  I  'm  trying  to  run  this  train,"  said  Tom, 
passing  the  punch  to  his  left  hand  in  order  to 
shake  the  hand  the  passenger  held  out. 

When  the  conductor  had  worked  the  train, 
he  came  back  to  the  passenger  with  the 
book. 

"  Say,  Gene,"  said  the  ticket- taker,  "  I  was 
so  elated  over  this  unexpected  pleasure  that  I 
forgot  to  get  your  ticket.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  make  me  ask  the  third  time  for  it." 

"  Well,  you  can  keep  right  on,  for  I  Ve  got 
16 


242  FRONTIER  STORIES 

no  ticket.  I  had  barely  time  to  throw  myself 
aboard  as  the  train  pulled  out." 

"Well,  you've  got  money,  haven't  you? 
'Cause  if  you  have  n't,  I  know  where  you  can 
borrow." 

Gene  smiled  and  gave  up,  and  then  the  two 
ex-captains  of  cavalry  sat  and  talked  of  the  old 
days,  when  there  were  no  railroads  there. 

"  Well,  Tom,  you  've  made  a  great  success  of 
this  railroad  business,  and  I  'm  proud  of  you," 
said  Gene,  glancing  at  the  bright  blue  uniform 
the  captain  wore. 

Tom  smiled.  "  What  are  you  driving  at, 
Gene?" 

"  Readin'  law." 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  "I  guess  that'll  beat 
brakin'  on  freight." 

And  so  the  two  men  talked  on  to  the  end  of 
the  run;  the  conductor  dropped  off,  and  the 
law  student  went  on  to  Chicago. 

In  the  jam  and  crowd  about  the  gates  of 
the  Burlington  station  at  Chicago  men  often 
bump  up  against  old  comrades  unexpectedly, 
and  so  it  fell  out  that  as  Gene  was  sweeping 


A    COUPLE   O'   CAPTAINS  243 

through  a  narrow  gate  he  ran  bang  into  a 
man. 

"  Hello,  Gene,"  said  the  man;  "wait  a 
moment." 

Gene  waited  impatiently,  for  five  minutes,  it 
seemed  to  him.  He  was  glad  enough  to  meet 
an  old  friend,  but  the  diagram  had  gone  to  the 
sleeping-car  conductor,  and  Gene  wanted  to 
secure  a  place.  Finally,  as  the  train  was  about 
to  pull  out  —  in  fact  the  time  was  up  by  the 
big  clock  on  the  wall  —  the  waiting  traveller 
was  gladdened  by  the  reappearance  of  the  busy 
man. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Tom?  Do 
you  want  me  to  get  left?  " 

Tom  smiled.  "  My  dear  Gene,  don't  you 
know  this  train  would  not  pull  out  without 
you?  " 

"That's  all  very  funny,"  Gene  replied; 
"but  I  Ve  got  no  place  to  sleep." 

"Well,  you  won't  sleep  much  to-night,  for 
you  are  going  to  sit  up  and  visit  with  me." 

By  this  time  Tom  had  been  met  by  a  smart 
black  porter,  who,  at  a  faint  signal  from  his 
master,  took  the  hand  baggage  from  the  over- 


244  FRONTIER  STORIES 

anxious  traveller  and  ran  up  the  rear  steps  of 
the  rearmost  car. 

"  Is  this  my  car?"  asked  Gene,  stopping 
and  glancing  along  the  platform. 

"  No,  it 's  mine  ;  but  you  can  ride.  Come, 
hand  yourself  aboard ;  I  sha'  n't  make  you  put 
up  this  trip." 

The  train  conductor,  ever  alert,  saw  the  two 
men  enter  the  car,  lifted  his  white  light,  and 
the  big  engine  breathed  softly,  and  moved  out 
of  the  station  shed. 

Gene,  following  the  trail  of  the  black  boy, 
stood  upon  the  platform  of  a  car  that  seemed 
to  be  all  plate  glass,  and  stepped  hesitatingly 
into  a  luxurious  drawing-room. 

"  Now  what 's  all  this  folderol,  Tom  !  "  asked 
Gene,  for  he  had  been  abroad  and  had  lost 
track  of  his  old  "  pal  "  of  the  plains. 

Tom  was  a  modest  man,  and  so  told  his 
friend  in  a  modest  way  that  he  was  the  General 
Manager,  and  that  this  was  the  private  car  that 
the  company  had  given  over  for  his  comfort 
and  convenience.  We  may  suppose  it  was  a 
pleasant  evening  that  the  two  captains  passed 
as  the  train  carried  them  away  to  the  West. 


A    COUPLE   0'   CAPTAINS  245 

A  few  years  later  Tom  left  the  Burlington 
and  went  over  to  take  charge  of  the  Union 
Pacific.  He  had  an  agreement  that  gave  him 
a  fabulous  salary,  and  the  written  promise  of 
the  owners  of  the  property  that  the  road  should 
be  run  by  him  from  Omaha  and  not  by  anyone 
else,  and,  above  all,  that  he  should  not  be  com 
pelled  to  take  signals  from  the  seaboard,  given 
by  men  who  were  in  the  habit  of  putting  a  day 
coach  in  the  shops  to  have  the  stove  changed 
to  "  the  front  end,"  instead  of  turning  the  car 
on  the  table  or  running  it  round  a  "Y." 

This  good  and  useful  man  had  been  at  his 
new  post  but  one  short  year  when  he  was  called 
in  by  the  Great  Manager  of  the  Universe,  and 
when  the  news  of  his  death  went  over  the  wire 
it  made  heavy  the  hearts  of  thousands  of  rail 
way  employees  all  over  this  continent,  for  he 
was,  without  question,  one  of  the  most  humane 
managers  that  has  ever  lived. 

All  night  long,  from  North  to  South,  from 
East  to  West,  as  the  conductor  swung  down 
from  a  coach  or  a  way  car,  the  operator  would 
meet  him  and  say  in  a  low  tone,  "  Tom  Potter 's 


246  FRONTIER   STORIES 

dead."  In  most  cases  the  conductor  would 
make  no  reply,  but  when  he  handed  the  order 
up  to  the  engineer,  he  would  say,  as  the  opera 
tor  had  said  to  him,  "Tom  Potter's  dead." 

"  No  !  "  the  engineman  would  say,  turning 
to  watch  the  conductor,  who  was  already  taking 
his  way  sadly  back  to  the  caboose  to  break  the 
news  to  the  brakemen. 

"  What 's  that?  "  asks  the  fireman. 

"  Tom  Potter 's  dead."  And  then  the  en 
gineer  would  open  the  throttle  slowly,  and  if 
she  slipped,  he  gave  her  sand  and  humored 
her  and  he  did  n't  swear. 

The  other  captain,  who  has  also  made  a 
name  and  a  place  for  himself,  is  still  with  us. 
He  is  the  "split-trick"  in  the  prosperous  law 
firm  of  Gleed,  Ware  and  Gleed,  of  Topeka.  He 
is  the  wholesome,  happy  two-hundred-pound 
poet  of  the  Kansas  capital  whose  pen-name  is 
"  Iron  Quill ;  "  and  if  you  doubt  this  story  it  is 
probably  because  you  have  been  reading 
romances  and  have  lost  confidence  in  the 
simple  true  tales  that  from  time  to  time  appear 
in  print. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY — TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


m—^ 


JUL  1  4 


lie  1  A  '69  -10  AM 


tNTER-LlBRAR* 


LOAN 


i 


M105421 


1/02-77 
fro 


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